


Promises Misconstrued

by BenevolentErrancy



Series: Made and Broken [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Asexual Spectrum, F/M, M/M, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-03-14 01:00:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 24
Words: 51,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3402620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenevolentErrancy/pseuds/BenevolentErrancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras has waited his entire life for the one person in the world that was his perfect biological match, a living breathing example of how humanity was always meant to function as a force united.  Somewhere out there is his soulmate, living their own life, waiting to speak those first words and seal their bond, as he, like everyone else, was promised by a neat line of black text.</p><p>But if no one looks beyond the promises that were made then no one is prepared for the fallout when they're broken.  Or for when they're fulfilled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for a kink meme prompt: 
> 
> "Does a soulmate tattoo mean consent in the world of soulmates AU? (no it doesn't) But what if people think it did."
> 
> For the full prompt: http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/14280.html?thread=13824200#t13824200
> 
> I've just finished the first part of the story and am currently editing it and posting it here. If you don't want to wait for me, you can go to the link above and read everything I've already written, but this version will be a lot cleaner, and certain things may end being tweaked to allow for development in the second part, depending on where I decide to go with it.
> 
> Finally, the tags are subject to change, I may be adding/altering a couple of the character/relationship tags, as well as adding content warnings if I reread and remember questionable content, so keep your eye on them.

When Grantaire first saw him, he immediately knew that this was going to hurt.

Ultimately, it was all Joly’s fault. A few weeks back he and Bossuet had started going to some holier-than-thou student activist group that thought it could change the world, and ever since they had begun regaling Grantaire with stories of the eclectic crowd that made up its members.

“You and Bahorel would get along like a house on fire,” Joly had told him after finishing an anecdote about a bar fight that'd had Grantaire in stitches. “You should meet him sometime.”

“Jehan might genuinely be a Byron incarnate,” Bossuet had said one evening while Grantaire hunched over a macabrely painted canvas he was adding the finishing touches to. “I think he was drinking out of a skull last week – Joly nearly had a fit over it. You should come to a meeting, you’d like these people.”

But Grantaire could hear what was being said under all the funny stories and friendly invitations though: _You should come and meet people, you never know where you're going to meet The One._ And Grantaire couldn't really begrudge them. The two of them had found each other years ago, the black script at the base of Bossuet's skull (“Oh thank god– listen I'm probably about to die but can you tell me what colour my tongue is?”) and that on the back of Joly's hand (“But I didn't even hit you that hard, please don't die!”) matched each other perfectly and they, as was apparently a prerogative for all soulmates ever, were disgustingly in love. And as if those two weren't sickly sweet enough on their own, they were even now in the process of getting to know the apparent third person of their triumvirate and from what Grantaire had seen of the infamous Musichetta they couldn't have asked for a better partner. So really, it was totally understandable why they were eager to encourage their friend to go and explore and meet people and find that “ _perfect person”_ waiting for him.

It was also totally understandable why Grantaire chose to talk about his soulmate tattoo as little as possible around them.

So, as amusing as some of these people sounded, nothing either of them said would budge Grantaire – he refused to even _think_ about going, refused to play into his friends' game. Besides, good company did not make up for pretentious lunacy, and these people apparently had that in spades if they thought that a handful of schoolboys could in any way affect that squalor that was human society.

And so Grantaire probably would have gone his entire life never needing to think about this children's club except for when one of his friends was recounting some exploit or another. He would never have had to put himself in a position to dredge up all those old memories, or bring his tattoo back to the forefront of his mind, or fall in love. He was very nearly able to go his whole life without being faced with a situation that he _knew_ was going to tear his heart out and grind it into the dirt. Until, of course, Joly got “sick”.

-

Now, Joly tended to be in a perpetual state of “sickness” while also perpetually lacking anything that most person would consider to be a symptom. It was par for course, as much a part of Joly as an infectious laugh or having Care Bear patterned scrubs. Unfortunately, when he decided that he had jaundice (and therefore probably liver cancer) was a day he and Bossuet were suppose to be going to one of these meetings. He wouldn't listen to Bossuet's gentle explanation that washing the new (very yellow) sheets had simply made them bleed a little and besides, he wasn't feeling any pain or nausea was he? (Which had only made Joly moan even more – Grantaire could have told Bossuet not to bring that up, Joly always seemed to think he felt pain or nausea.) Meanwhile Grantaire, who had come over at around noon for breakfast, cheerfully pointed out that if any of them was going to die prematurely of a failed liver it was going to be him and what were the odds that  _ both _ of them kick it in the same way, really? Bossuet found it more amusing than Joly. ****

In the end they did succeed in convincing Joly that he didn't need to go to the hospital again but he absolutely would not be moved from his bed. Accepting defeat and seeing the hour, Grantaire clapped Bossuet on the back and wished him all the best with the “invalid” and prepared to head home.

“Wait! 'Aire!” Bossuet rushed out of the bedroom wringing his hands just as Grantaire was pulling on his toque. “Do you think... maybe you'd like to come to the meeting with me?” He gave a winsome smile that said in bright, flashing letters that he knew he was fighting a losing battle.

Grantaire snorted. “I've already told you that I'm not having anything to do with some boyband who think they're mankind's only hope.”

“No, they're really not as bad as all that, 'Aire, you'd probably really like them.” Grantaire snorted again. “And I promised I would present some research this time but Joly was going to bring it along because you  _know_ what will happen if I'm in charge of getting it there! It'll be in a puddle or blown into the street or left at home or something awful and, well, I want to do this right! I mean Enjolras – he's not the leader but, like, he's the Official Not-The-Leader – and he's great! But, um, he can also be a little... intimidating, and I  _really_ don't want to mess this up.  _Please_ , 'Aire, you don't have to stay but at least walk down there with me?”

Grantaire pulled a hand through his hair. “Look, it'll be fine, Lesgle. I know you're a little– okay you're really damn unlucky,” he amended after a despairing look from Bossuet, “but this is just, like, self-fulfilling prophecy bullshit, right? You're a grown ass man, you'll be fine. Just remember to pack your bag carefully before you leave.”

“Remember my fifth date with Musichetta?” Bossuet pressed and Grantaire chuckled. It was a story that had been told and retold many times, one in which Bossuet normally found plenty of humour. Musichetta had lent Bossuet one of her favourite books, one that was at that perfect stage of wear, with a spine that seemed to know exactly what page to fall open to and soft, well-thumbed pages. She had given it to Bossuet on their fourth date, claiming that she could never be soulmates with someone who hadn't read it. Well, Bossuet, knowing his own reputation, had treated it like he had been handed the crown jewels and somehow had managed to keep it in perfect condition. In perfect condition, that is, until, with the book tenderly packed into a bag and on his way to meet Musichetta for their next date, Bossuet had the misfortune to get mugged. No one had been hurt – Bossuet was actually something of an old pro at this sort thing – but after Bossuet's increasingly desperate insistence that there was nothing valuable in his bag the muggers had decided that obviously he was hiding something and wouldn't be persuaded to leave until after it had been thrown to him. Thus Bossuet had been forced to turn up at Musichetta's, after weeks of diligence, very book-less.

“Or that job interview from last Spring?” said Bossuet. A child had been bored to tears on the bus so Bossuet, being the kind soul that he was, had given him some scrap paper to draw on. It was only after he was seated in the interview that he realized that the paper hadn't been last semester's homework that had been forgotten in the bag but a crucial reference letter. Needless to say, he hadn't gotten the job.

“Or how about my final for Intellectual Property Law?” That one had involved a fifteen page paper, an unzipped backpack, and a sudden, unforecasted rainstorm.

“Okay fine,” Grantaire conceded, “give me your stupid research.”

-

Twenty minutes later, they were standing outside a café and Grantaire was grimacing apologetically while the two of them stared at Bossuet's hard work which was now forlornly dripping paint. Apparently Grantaire had forgotten about a tube of ochre that had been left in the bottom of his bag, and which, more importantly, had not had its lid securely fasten.

“I should have learnt by now not to try to avoid fate,” Bossuet said glumly. “She is not a mistress that takes kindly to it.”

Perhaps if Grantaire had just accepted Bossuet's bad luck for what it was and had walked away, all of this could have still been avoided. Instead, guilt gnawing at his gut, Grantaire decided to show just how apologetic he was by letting Bossuet lead him into the backroom of the café while his friend tried to salvage what little information he could.

The backroom of The Café Musain, the main meeting place for this little club, was small and already crowded but all the people, all the noise, seemed faded into the background the moment a sharp, commanding tone cut through the air. Standing at the other end of the room, talking to another man, stood a living statue, rendered all in marble and gold with a voice like the tide – grand and powerful and unstoppable. Grantaire became aware of the fact that he had stopped dead and was probably gaping like a sinner suddenly faced by his god when the perfect statue turned a whiplash-like gaze towards him and raised a quizzical brow.

This, Grantaire thought as he unwittingly dragged his fingers through his hair and the smeared remains of ochre paint throughout it, was going to hurt. And there was nothing he was going to be able to do to stop it.

 


	2. Chapter 2

“ _Good evening, citizen, have you come to join us in exposing the injustices that our society allows to perpetuate and oppress minority groups?” was the first thing that this statue – Enjolras, as Grantaire would learn – had said to him._

(Grantaire thought about this a lot. Thought about the voice that had carried it, thought about the hope and approval and fire and passion that had filled it, and thought of the welcoming, if challenging look that had carried it. He imagined what it would look like in black letters stamped across his skin.)  
  
“ _Dunno,” Grantaire had responded, “I was hoping this special blend of madness wouldn’t be that contagious.”_

(He thought about those words a lot to. He thought about how they had immediately stolen any sort of approval or welcome and replaced it all with that fire and challenge, so much so that it had nearly burnt him to hear the scathing reply that followed. But it had also been beautiful and like a moth with no sense of the inevitable Grantaire had known then and there that he was hooked.)

And so after that fateful encounter, all thanks to Bossuet’s stupid yellow sheets, Joly’s hypochondriac soul, and Grantaire’s inability to mind even by his own rules, Grantaire became a regular in the corner of the Musain’s backroom. With his alcohol and skepticism and snide remarks, he immediately found himself a thorn in beautiful Enjolras’ side, and with his drunkenness and humour and good nature he immediately found himself a friend to the others. Joly and Bossuet had been right about that at least: most of “Les Amis”, as they called themselves, were exactly the sort of people Grantaire enjoyed spending time with.

( _Sometimes, he also thought about those words and what they would look like in black on another’s skin and the impossibility of it. But only after he had drunk quite a lot because he anything else would leave him consumed by a deep, echoing ache that he was never quite able to shake._ )

-

“Why do you waste your time being here if you only do it to drown yourself in beer,” Enjolras snapped one evening after the discussions being held had been interrupted once again by loud, drunken laughter from the corner where Grantaire had spirited Jehan to.

Grantaire looked up from the notebook he and Jehan had both been working in and gave him a wide, dopey, slightly-too-toothy smile. “As you said, I am drunk, my dear Apollo, and therefore have no time to waste. It’s all the same; I could be here, or the Corinthe, or the streets. At least here is warm.”

Enjolras scowled. “Then why do you feel the need to waste  _our_  time, if it’s all the same to you. Surely you’d be happier at the bottom of some wine barrel than in the midst of a group ‘tragic idealists’ as you so delicately named us.”

Smirking, Grantaire toasted Enjolras mockingly with his bottle. “There you have it then,” he said merrily. “If you believe me to be of Sinope then I have no higher calling than to debase the currency that you hold so dear – your righteous beliefs, that is to say.”

“You’re speaking nonsense, Grantaire, go home.”

Grantaire gave Enjolras another toothy grin and turned back to Jehan whose expression crossed uncomfortable and amused. Fuming, Enjolras turned back the talk he was having with Feuilly.

-

Enjolras couldn’t believe he had ever felt so much distaste towards a single person before. Hate, certainly, he hated plenty of people with a passion that perfectly balanced that with which he adored his friends, his cause, and the people. But the problem was he didn’t hate Grantaire, even though it came incredibly close at times; if he hated him it would have been little hardship to have him cast out whether or not he was Joly and Bossuet’s friend.

And that was what it all came down to: he was Joly and Bossuet’s friend. He wasn’t a confused passer-by who had wandered in or a random dissentient come to pick a fight, both of which Les Amis had plenty of experience with and who never stuck around long. These people were easy to ignore or shoot down or dismiss because Enjolras had no preconceived notions about them – they were simply opposition to the progress and freedom for which Enjolras and his friends strove. But he had heard stories about Grantaire. He was smart, Joly had told him, more intelligent than he ever gives himself credit for and can talk circles around the unwary. He was talented, he had heard Bossuet telling Bahorel: he did boxing, martial arts, dance, and more besides. And though Enjolras would never admit it, he had become fascinated by this stranger and silently hoped that their attempts to bring him around would succeed at some point.

So when the man with wild, paint-stained hair and a shabby hoodie trailed in after Bossuet Enjolras knew immediately that this had to be the mysterious Grantaire. And then Grantaire spoke and continued speaking and before the end of the night Enjolras wanted to do nothing more than strangle the man. And then he _kept coming back_.

If Grantaire had been a normal stranger Enjolras thought he could comfortably hate him, or at least spare him pity for his twisted views, but instead all Enjolras could feel was nauseating distaste because here was all this potential being squandered in the body of a sketpical drunk who seemed set on making Enjolras’ life more difficult than it needed to be.

-

It was late and right now Enjolras didn't want anything as much as the ability to just go to sleep. There was also nothing he had any less chance of being able to do. Even curled in the farthest corner of the living room with his headphones on and his music turned up he could hear the noises coming from Courfeyrac’s bedroom. It wasn’t that he begrudged his friend his pleasures, but he really wished that he could at least take it somewhere else. While the idea of sex, in the abstract, was all well and fine Enjolras preferred it to have absolutely no relation to himself. Getting to hear it loud and demanding through the thin apartment walls was enough to make Enjolras uncomfortable. So now he was curled on their second-hand armchair with his laptop almost dead, trying to keep his eyes open so he could finish an essay that wasn't due for another two week.

There was a high-pitched moan. Enjolras changed the wording for his thesis slightly.

The bed gave a couple jarring, rhythmic smacks against the bedroom wall. Enjolras had reread his opening paragraph four times without absorbing a thing.

A man’s voice begged for more, more. Enjolras had opened Google and was typing in “Sinope”.

Now it was Courfeyrac’s voice that was begging. Enjolras turned up his music.

Wikipedia had a few suggestions, one of which seemed to be from Greek mythology which sounded promising, given Grantaire’s inexplicable tendency to call him “Apollo”. There was even a reference to Apollo in the article but it still didn’t strike him as very relevant so he went back a page. He was about to click on the link to a Turkish city by that name when a link a little further down caught his eye: Diogenes of Sinope. Of course, now it made sense. Enjolras opened the page and started to browse it. The links under his “interests” lead to a page on cynicism and asceticism, the latter of which he wasn’t familiar with so he followed the link - and after a moment of thought the former as well on the principal that it couldn’t hurt. The first line of the asceticism article – “a lifestyle characterized by abstinence from worldly pleasures” – made Enjolras laugh out loud; it was clear that their group’s pet nay-sayer didn’t stray much into this philosophy.

The apartment was silent when Enjolras finally shut down his computer. Considering he hadn't managed to write a single paragraph he felt strangely satisfied with himself.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Well good morning to you too, sunshine,” Courfeyrac said cheerfully when he appeared in the kitchen, angling towards the half-filled coffee pot. There was no sign of whoever had shared Courf’s bed with him last night.

Enjolras continued to scowl into his (third) cup of coffee.

“Did I keep you up? Is that why I have such a grumpy dandelion head at my kitchen table?” he asked.

“Guess,” said Enjolras darkly.

Courfeyrac mussed with Enjolras’ hair and artfully dodged an elbow that shot out for his stomach. “Sorry, Enj, he was pretty insistent about not going back to his place.”

“More insistent than I am about people being brought back to ours?”

“His ass was really insistent that we go back to somebody’s. Do you want eggs?”

Enjolras grunted to the affirmative and was seriously considering getting another cup of coffee. Courfeyrac, ever the chipper early bird (it was disgusting), putted around their tiny kitchen, humming as he cracked some eggs into a pan.

“...I am sorry though, I did suggest we go somewhere else but... I mean, you know how people get, right? Apparently his landlady has really strict rules about bringing people back who aren't his soulmate – he could get kicked out for it. And I mean, you're not...” He gestured vaguely to encompass all nosy, judgemental traditionalists.

“People make it really hard, huh,” Enjolras mused. “Is it really that enjoyable? I mean, it seems like it'd just be so much easier to just... not.”

Courfeyrac didn’t seem at all phased by the question; he just shrugged good-naturedly. “Well, yeah, sex is _kind of_ one of the greatest things ever invented, like evolution did an A plus job on that one. But it's mostly just like... why should I, you know? Who are they to tell me I can't have sex just because it's not with my soulmate. We’re all waiting for The One, so we might as well have fun along the way. Besides, the more people you meet the likely you are to find them.”

“I know I’ve said I want to be the first person to meet your soulmates–”

“Only so you can try them by fire,” Courfeyrac teased.

“–but I swear to god if you meet them while they’re gasping in your bed at some ungodly hour I can wait until morning.”

Courfeyrac laughed uproariously. “I’d better not meet them in bed!” He rolled up his one sleeve to reveal a small, neat tattoo on his biceps that simply read  _Yes, fine thanks_. “That could only indicate the most disappointing sex on the planet, I think.”

Chuckling, Enjolras accepted the plate of eggs Courfeyrac handed him.

They were quiet after that, cutlery scraping against plates as they ate, but eventually his thoughts weighed heavy enough that Enjolras had to ask. “And what would you do if it was?”

“What?” asked Courfeyrac through a mouthful of eggs.

“If the sex was disappointing, what would you do?”

The look Courfeyrac gave him was amused, but also confused. “Dunno, work on it, I guess? I mean it’s just sex. I mean, not just sex, because sex is great, sex is _awesome_  but you can work on that. Get better, figure the other person out. And if it’s with your soulmate you have all the time in the world to work on it, right?” He shrugged. “Things would sort themselves out. Though…” and he was smirking suggestively now, “if they are my perfect-for-me soulmate is there really any chance they’ll _not_ be fantastic in bed?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes affectionately but the answer didn’t help much. What if you didn’t want to work on it? But then again, if his soulmate was “perfect-for-him”, like Courfeyrac thought, he supposed they wouldn’t be clamouring for sex either. He couldn't make sense of it, everyone else, even if they weren't sleeping around like Courfeyrac, seemed keen on the idea but Enjolras just... couldn't be.

“Just think,” Courfeyrac said. “One of these days we’re both going to meet these people, The One – or Ones,” he added, hand trailing from his bicep down to his hip where Enjolras knew his second tattoo was, “and it’s just… going to be perfect.” He smiled dreamily.

Enjolras wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he knew exactly what Courfeyrac meant. Despite how much he adored his friends and his independence, despite whatever misgivings or nerves he might have, he looked forward to when he would meet someone that was his perfect, biological match, someone with whom he could share his passions and relate to on every level. Gently, he brushed his fingers over where his tattoo circled his wrist. Some day.

-

 “Look, if you want to jump his bones just do it and stop moping. My apartment is cramped enough without your enormous inferiority complex joining us.”

Grantaire bent his neck back so he could see Éponine where she was draped over the entirety of her lumpy futon from where he was slumped on the floor. “Most modern societies frown on the pushing unreciprocated sexual advances,” he deadpanned, drinking heavily from a can of beer in his hand.

Éponine kicked the back of his head. “You know what I mean, fucker. Proposition him or whatever. ‘I haven’t been having regular sex, you might not even know that sex is a thing that humans do yet, why don’t we fix this’ sort of thing.”

“Oh yeah? And that’s been working well for you and Marius, has it?”

Another kick and Grantaire rolled away from the base of the couch so that he was sprawled out on his back, staring up at the stained ceiling and safely away from his friend’s feet.

“I don’t have time for your shit right now, ‘Aire. If you want the gooey heart-to-heart treatment go talk to Joly and Bossuet or whatever.”

Grantaire gave a bitter laugh. “Right, that would be just the sort of people I want to talk to about this. The two who are desperately in love with their soulmates. I can’t just – …I can’t just tell them I’m like this.”

“I don’t see why you need to make such a big screaming deal about it. I’m not dating my soulmate and I don’t give a fuck about whether other people are getting their delicate sensibilities in a twist over it.”

“Montparnasse is scum.”

“Yeah, but the sex is great and he’s a lot more, you know, _present_  than this mysterious soulmate of mine. Who fucking cares.”

“Everyone? Yeah, every does. Like, literally all of society,” Grantaire said, gulping more of the beer.

“And you’ve been hanging around a group of people who spend their free time condemning society for everything from systematic oppression to over priced lattes, who cares about society? The only fucking I get from society is when it fucks me over.”

“If you printed Enjolras a t-shirt with that on it you might make him fall in love with you,” Grantaire commented dryly.

“And here we are, back on the topic of this bastard who’s tap dancing on your heart in cleats and the raging boner you have for him.”

“Cute, 'Ponine. Look, as much as Enjolras and his boy band might like to play at denouncing society–” He paused to take another deep drink, he was too sober for this shit. “–it literally surrounds us. You can’t do shit about society, it’s too big, it’s the way every single person thinks all wrapped up with greed and power imbalances and centuries of fuck-ups. If society doesn’t like something, you better leave it the fuck alone or be prepared to face all hell. So no, I’m not going to ‘proposition’ Enjolras because, as much as he might hate to admit it, he’s part of society and would probably realize I’m even more disgusting than he already thinks.”

There was silence for a few minutes as they both continued to drink, only briefly broken when Grantaire tossed his empty can away and snapped anther one open.

“Bullshit,” Éponine finally said, clumsily rolling onto her side so she could stare down at Grantaire. “You once painted yourself like that one Van Gogh painting and ran naked through the uni quad claiming that it was ‘performance art’. You don’t give a flying fuck about what society thinks is okay. And you sure as hell can’t care that much about what Enjolras thinks because you seem pretty fucking hell bent on making him think you’re lower than dirt. This is your shitty sense of self-worth, just fucking admit it.”

Grantire grunted and drank. A beer can was thrown at his head, one that wasn’t entirely empty so it ended up soaking his hair as it rolled away. Grantaire liked to think it was meant affectionately.

“You’re… you are worth that shit, ‘Aire. You’re a fucking fantastic person.” God she sounded drunk. “You’re better than some pretty boy and you should totally go and make out with him if you want to because– ‘cause he would be lucky to have you as his soulmate and if he’s got a problem with it then, then, then fuck ‘im. You don’t need that shit. Fuck ‘em all…” She trailed off.

Grantaire made to drag his hand through his hair but it didn’t make it past his face; instead he pressed both hands against his eyes and tried to pretend that they weren’t wet and that his body wasn’t shaking. He was a shitty person to be around once he had reached the “miserably drunk” stage.

“He… ‘e deserves better though,” he mumbled into his hands. “He still… he’s got a soulmate, y’know? Out there. And they’re gonna be perfect because _he’s_  perfect and I, I can’t. I’m not perfect, Ép, and he’ll leave me, if he’d even take me and he wouldn’t but he would leave me. Or he won’t leave me ‘cause, ‘cause he feels guilty or some shit and I’ll have ruined it. Because he’s still okay and I’m not and I, I can’t. Ép, I can’t,” he finished pathetically.

There was no response though and when Grantaire finally mustered the energy to look over he could see that Éponine had passed out. He laughed, and then cried a little more.

It was okay though. He still got the pleasure of seeing Enjolras. Still got to sit in his corner and stare silently at this messiah delivering his message to the unprepared masses. And if sometimes his cynicism snuck out and caused that unrelenting, terrifying passion, all twisted up in fury and annoyance, to be turned on him, well, that was okay too. Forget what Éponine had to say, he could handle this and so far, it had been okay.

And it would continue to be okay, this imbalanced back and forth, Grantaire’s idealization and Enjolras’ disdain and their unavoidable arguments, until suddenly it wasn’t. All because of a thin line of black text.

-


	4. Chapter 4

“ _Apollo–!_ ”

Enjolras looked up too late. One moment he was completely absorbed in the text message he was composing, the next his head was snapping up at the familiar nickname and he found himself running face first into a pair of horrified students trying to carry some giant, ceramic sculpture between them.

What happened next was a chaotic blur. Enjolras' hands flew up, pamphlets scattered everywhere, the two startled strangers shrieked as they desperately tried to keep a hold on the thing they were carrying – a really heavy thing that was suddenly gripped by gravity and was crashing towards him. His own feet were buckling under him as he tried to stop them and stop the thing and stop himself; everything else, the flashes of shocked spectators, the realization that this would _hurt_ and the distant sound of swearing, all bled together until...

“Jesus fuck Enjolras!”

Enjolras was lying awkwardly on his back in a sea of pamphlets with his arms wrapped clumsily around something huge and ceramic that was absolutely crushing him, staring up into the startled face of Grantaire who had sprinted up in the confusion and grabbed the sculpture just as it was tipping, softening its descent. There was a sort of scattered applause from the spectators when the seemingly inevitable shattering was avoided.

“Oh thank god, Capital R,” one of the students practically sobbed, rushing to help lift the thing off Enjolras' chest. “I thought it was going to _break_ , I saw my GPA flash before my eyes.”

“Is it okay? Is it okay?” the other student gasped, joining in; the three of them successfully lifted it from Enjolras and managed to balance it between the two students again. A short inspection confirmed that, yes, it seemed to be completely okay and a few of the spectators came forth to offer to help carry it the rest of the way. Only after thanks and relief and a few passive aggressive comments about Enjolras were exchanged and the ceramic statue was disappearing down the hall did Grantaire finally turn back to Enjolras, looking exhausted.

“Who the hell let you into the Fine Arts building?” he asked.

Enjolras held out a few crumpled pamphlets by way of explanation. “I was printing off copies...”

Groaning, Grantaire dragged a hand through his hair, expression still worn from the sudden adrenaline rush but tinged with amusement. “Only you could cause this level of chaos by borrowing a printer. For god's sake, Enjolras, it's midterms, everyone around here is lugging about projects, look where you're going! What if you had walked through a canvas or trampled over a portfolio or something?” He looked rather faint at the thought. “Who were you texting that intently anyways, doesn't Combeferre have classes right now? Or did Courfeyrac do something particularly stupid again?”

Grantaire was reaching for the phone that had clattered to the ground during the madness, but Enjolras dove for it and snatched it up first, shoving it into his pocket. “It doesn't matter,” he said briskly and began to pick up pamphlets as if that had been his intention the entire time.

“It's a really good thing your charisma doesn't rely of subtlety,” Grantaire commented, bending down to help gather up the mess.

When their hands brushed – Grantaire's hands jerking away immediately as if it had touched a live wire – Enjolras realized that he didn't think he had ever actually been this close to Grantaire before. Normally they were on opposite ends of the room, Enjolras in the brightly lit centre and Grantaire tucked into the shadowed corner, both yelling at each other from across the space in between, and always with their friends there to minimize damages. Now there was no divide and no buffer, and Enjolras didn't think he had ever seen Grantaire like this before: his face was turned away and the tips of his ears were bright red for some reason but he seemed strangely... mellow. Not raucous or bitter, not being clever or cruel or cynical, but considerate. Kind. This wasn't the Grantaire he knew.

And just like that he was suddenly more curious about Grantaire than he had been since he'd met him. “What are you doing here?” He couldn't remember what Grantaire's degree was (and that was... wrong, wasn't it? He must know. He knew what all of his friends were working on, he must know Grantaire's...) but he was pretty sure it had something to do with a lot of writing which didn't explain why he was in the Arts building...

“Fine Arts minor,” Grantaire said, still not meeting his eyes as he chased down pamphlets, but fortunately not angry that Enjolras had completely forgotten what he was doing in school. He gave an uncertain laugh. “Fine Arts minor and a Classics major, how much more useless a degree can you go for, huh?”

“No, that's... fantastic. I hadn't realized you were an actual artist.”

Grantaire snorted. “I wouldn't go that far.” He stood up and handed Enjolras the pages he had collected and Enjolras met his eyes and they were sharp and aware and suddenly Enjolras realized what had been missing this entire time.

“Are you sober?” He hadn't smelt so much as a whiff of alcohol, despite his face being inches from Grantaire's at some points (though Grantaire had always looked away quickly at those moments).

“I've been doing papercutting,” Grantaire explained. “Paint drunk, write drunk – heck, even edit drunk, but when you're cutting itty-bitty, finicky things with a very, very sharp knife even I think that staying on this side of sobriety is the better option. Hopefully I won't be for much longer, I've just finished for the day.”

“Can I see?”

Grantaire started and immediately began edging away. His ears were bright red again; Enjolras didn't think he had ever seen Grantaire blush before, but then again he also had never seen him completely sober before. He was surprised by how endearing it was.

“It's no where near finished,” Grantaire said, “and it's really not that great, I don't have all that much time left to finish it, y'know? I mean, art is awesome but I suck ass at it – not like Feuilly, you should see some of the shit he can do, in, like, intense detail. He can make these fans like whoa. Mine's just always... all over the place. I just got my last project back and it was a complete fucking disaster and the style was this gross mash-up of a bunch of other artists' worse bits and it looks more like a cobweb than a proper paper cut and, shit, forget it. You really don't want to see any of this, trust me on that, it would ruin you for proper art and I don't want to be responsible for that.”

After patiently waiting for the tangent to end, Enjolras simply said, “I do. If that's alright.”

Grantaire shuffled from foot to foot for a moment before reaching into his bag and pulling out a rectangle of stiff cardboard, from which he carefully slid a paper cut. This must be the previous project instead of his current one, Enjolras assumed, because he could see a grade sheet peeking out of the cardboard sleeve. Balancing it on top of the cardboard, Grantaire passed it over to Enjolras.

“Just don't do to it what you almost did to that pottery statue,” he said, voice all forced nonchalance. “Though it probably deserves it.”

Enjolras couldn't even reply; he was amazed. He knew Grantaire doodled, bits of discarded paper covered in sketches could often be found around the Musain since Grantaire started coming and the bits of paint that often covered him should have really tipped him off about the painting but he had never really connected that to the idea that Grantaire made actual _art_. Because that was what was in his hands. It was a circular piece of stark white paper and once his eyes were able to adjust to the sheer complexity of it he could see that the tiny, intricate bits cut out of it made an actual picture. It was the image of a woman hunched on the ground, all intertwined with vines – no, snakes – staring up at another, wild-haired woman who floated off the ground and whose gown and hair made up most of the border. The floating woman's hand was out-stretched imperiously and the woman on the ground was reaching up to it with apparent tentativeness.

“It's, um. Well, it's suppose to be, um, Medusa. With Athena. Figured I might as well put my major to use,” Grantaire mumbled.

“I know that story,” Enjolras said, eyes wide as he continued to examine the piece – there seemed to constantly be new details to notice. “Medusa had sex with some god in Athena's temple so she turned her into a monster to punish her, right?”

“That's one version of the legend,” Grantaire said, and he was beginning to sound a bit more like the Grantaire Enjolras knew – confident in his knowledge, something that was a surprising relief. “It's said that Medusa was once an incredibly beautiful maiden, so Poseidon trapped her in Athena's temple and raped her. Then Athena, the virgin goddess, came down afterwards and turned Medusa's beautiful hair into snakes, took away her soulmate mark, and made it so that anyone she looked upon would be turned to stone.”

“That's cruel.”

“Is it?”

Tearing his gaze away from the paper cut out Enjolras stared at Grantaire whose expression was dead serious. He began to explain: “People call it a punishment, for having sex in her temple, but that's not the only reading of the story. There were some female cults that interpreted it differently. They said it was Athena's gift to her. A woman was forced to have sex in her temple, so she made it so that no man would ever be able to touch her without her permission again. Her hair was beautiful and that was why she was singled out by Poseidon so Athena made it a weapon. She made it so all Medusa would have to do is look at a man to stop him in his tracks. A man acted like he could possess her so Athena took away her soulmate mark – so that she would never again be owned by someone. She made her independent. To some men that could be called a monster,” he added, a little wryly.

Enjolras' expression immediately darkened. “You call erasing her chance at happiness a gift?”

Scowling, Grantaire snapped, “This isn't about the snakes, is it? I thought you of all people would be all over a story about a rape victim who's given the power to turn potential threats into stone if they don't respect her consent.”

“Why would this god remove her soulmate tattoo though, how can that be anything but a punishment? It's cruel. She was hurt by one person and now she never gets the chance to find the person who'll help make things right for her, who'll help support and protect her?” He shoved the paper cut back at Grantaire, who snatched it up and returned it to its sleeve, safely out of sight, as if to protect its delicate paper edges from their rising voices.

“Maybe she's alright on her own!” said Grantaire. “Maybe after everything she went through she didn't need the fucking expectations to bend over backwards for the next person that came along and happened to say the right words to her like she some sort of fucking genie there to grant their wishes! Maybe being given permission to be alone and care about herself instead of someone else was a gift!”

Enjolras was suddenly struck by suspicion that this wasn't just about some Greek legend anymore.

“What is wrong with you, Grantaire?” he demanded instead of pursuing that line of thought. “Why are you so determined to spit on everything that could ever be good in the world?”

“No one fucking promised that soulmates were 'everything good in the world'. They're as much faulty, miserable humans as everyone else.”

Enjolras took a step back, vaguely horrified and considerably offended. “I know you have a soulmate, Grantaire. Everyone does. How can you speak about them like that?”

He doesn't understand the expression on Grantaire's face but for a second he thinks he's about to be punched.

“Not all of us are made for soulmates, Enjolras,” Grantaire said with a voice so low that Enjolras can't tell if the tremor in it was from anger or pain.

-

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea that Athena turned Medusa into a “monster” so that she could protect herself and would never again have to let something like that happen is an actual way some female cults from Ancient Greek interpreted the story (to my understanding at least, I haven’t done extensive research into the topic), instead of the more common view that it a way of punishing her for “having sex” in her temple. I believe some women's shelters in Ancient Greece would actually have Medusa's head over them. The bit about the soulmate tattoo was obviously all my own addition because I figure in a world that has these they would probably saturated all aspects of culture.


	5. Chapter 5

Grantaire said more than he had ever meant to.  This wasn't something he talked about, this wasn't a belief, a fear, that he shared.  He would denounce soulmates, he would play the jaded, promiscuous lover who couldn't be bothered by the whole thing, but he didn't talk about the root of the matter.  For a moment he feared that Enjolras would hear it in his voice, would call him on it.

He shouldn't have been so worried.

“You can't blame nature for your faults,” Enjolras told him coldly.  “If you're as disconnected from love as you are from any sort of belief then you have no one to blame but your own corruption.  You don't need to take it out on your soulmate and you definitely don't need to take it out on anyone else's.   Is your world view really so awful that you cannot even believe in something as simple, as human, as love?  Are you really so incapable, so empty, Grantaire?”

Grantaire flinched, expressions crumbling into one another before he finally answered.  “What is there to believe in?  Maybe it exists, maybe it doesn’t, but whatever the feeling is, it’s nothing more brain chemicals and selfish desires for, for what?  Another human being who's obliged to recognize your existence?  Who has to agree with you?  The promise of, what, acceptance, security, _sex_?”  It was Enjolras' turn to flinch; Grantaire wondered what specifically had managed to get under his skin.  “'Love' isn't some glorious, beautiful trophy you can collect and put on a pedestal, Enjolras.  It's a mess.”

“What would you know about it, Grantaire?” Enjolras demanded.  “Some people accept happiness into their lives instead of destroying it with the foul assumption that _everything_ in the world is awful.  You talk a good game with Bahorel and Courfeyrac about the people you manage to lure to your bed but I've never heard you say a word about your soulmate or your tattoo.  Does your pathetic fear of conviction or trust, does your _alcohol_ really come even before them?”

“And what about you, Enjolras,” said Grantaire in return.  “Does your cause come before your soulmate?  Will they have to battle against pamphlets and meetings for your attention?  Make do with the scraps you can spare?”  Grantaire was nearly vibrating with anger and hurt and the realization that Enjolras deserved none of it, that all the hatred was internal – he was the one that couldn't make do with scraps, who made the man he venerated despise him simply for the sake of having a word, no matter how barbed, be thrown in his direction.  “Or did Patria descend in a dream and speak sweet words onto your skin?”

“I will never be faced with that a choice,” Enjolras said sharply.  “My soulmate is as passionate about the progression of equality as I am, it’s a love we share.”

The paper cut, held delicately despite the coarseness of the argument, nearly slipped through suddenly numb fingers.

“It is indeed!”

Both men, so wrapped up in their argument, jumped, and this time the cardboard sleeve really did fall from Grantaire's hand, fluttering down to the floor.

“Oh!  Sorry about that.”

A man who had just appeared at the other end of the hall strolled towards them; Enjolras' back had been to him so he hadn't noticed his entrance and Grantaire hadn't thought twice about it, assuming him to be just another university student.  He certainly did now though, watching as a heavy hand fell on Enjolras' shoulder with familiarity that made Grantaire's heart clench.  A beaming smile replaced the surprise on Enjolras' face as he turned to meet the man.  Without hesitation, the man bent his head, murmured “I got your text,” against Enjolras' lips and then caught them in a deep kiss, his free hand snaking up through golden hair and pulling him close.  Grantaire could only stare and wish for the drink he had been denying himself all morning.

When they finally pulled a part, Enjolras turned back to Grantaire with a flint in his eyes.  “I haven't had a chance to introduce him to the rest of Les Amis,” he said with affected calmness, “but this is Goumanier.   My soulmate.”

“Guillaume,” the man corrected cheerfully.  “Terrible alliteration, I know, but what can you do?  Nice to meet you.” 

He held out a hand.  For a moment, Grantaire desperately wanted to ignore it, but any resolve immediately broke down under Enjolras' expression.  This was an arms race that Grantaire couldn't win, would never win.  His lack of love was scorched by the passionate love that Enjolras held – as always, the shadows that built him were forced to shrink back when faced with his Apollo's merciless light.  What was his misery to Enjolras' happiness?

“Grantaire,” he said instead, taking the hand and giving it a firm shake; Guillaume's fingers closed around his with enough pressure to make his knuckles ache but the smile on his face was huge and friendly.

“Grantaire!  Enjolras has talked a lot about you!”

Enjolras fidgeted under Guillaume's hand; Grantaire gave him a sidelong look.

“Then I hope you don't take too much of it to heart.”

Guillaume laughed and it _boomed_ , filling the hall and making people passing them glance over.  “I'll try not to.  I had begun to think you couldn't possibly exist and were just some gargoyle built into a corner that Enjolras was offended by.”

With a forced laugh, Grantaire stepped purposefully away from them.  “Well then, I would hate to intrude on newly found lovebirds, and I'm afraid I've been neglecting my one true love all morning, so I'll say good bye for now.”

Enjolras started to say something but Guillaume nudged him playfully.  “Be nice, ange,” he laughed.  “It was good to meet you, Grantaire!”

Grantaire gave a wave and left, at first considering going to the Musain but deciding against it.  Even on days that didn't have scheduled meetings people tended to congregate there and he didn't want to risk being intercepted or cut off or made to talk.  So, choosing another bar that he knew of – perfect for cheap, strong, borderline noxious alcohol – he set out in that direction with the intention of getting heroically drunk and hopefully not remembering any of this in the morning.

-

Enjolras bent down and picked up the cardboard sleeve that held the paper cut.  “I was going to tell him he forgot this,” he said, rather crossly.

“What?  Really?  Sorry, love,” Guillaume said, pulling Enjolras to his side affectionately.  “It's just he looked really antsy to get away and you were yelling some pretty harsh things at him earlier so I just thought I might give the poor bastard an opening before you started tearing into him again.”

Had he been yelling?  Certainly he and Grantaire had been exchanging some strong words but surely it hadn’t gotten loud…  Though now looking back he felt he couldn’t be certain; he knew he got caught up in debates, so perhaps he had missed warning signs he should have been paying more attention to…

Guillaume kissed the side of his face and Enjolras was struck again by a sense of edginess.  It had been a couple days now since he and Guillaume had come across each other, and at his soulmate’s suggestion they had spent the first few days without their friends, just getting use to each other.  It had been wonderful; Guillaume was an amazing person and Enjolras felt himself falling deeper and deeper in love with the man every minute.  But there were strange moments that cropped up, intimate moments like this, that left his insides feeling disturbed, like his bones were crawling or his stomach was unsettled.  He supposed he just hadn’t gotten use to this sort of physical contact yet and he was desperately trying to stamp it down, keep it quiet until he got use to it.  Still, he tried to edge away as tactfully as possible.  Guillaume didn't seem to notice.

“I love you, babe,” he said, “but you can be a little hard sometimes.  I'm sure it was nothing though, he seems to bounce back pretty easily from what you've told me.”

Enjolras hadn't realized that the dispute had been so bad that Grantaire would have to 'bounce back'.  Was there a chance he wouldn't?  What would happen if he didn't?  Enjolras gave himself an internal shake.  What was he getting so worked up for; he was never normally this self-conscious.  Besides, Grantaire showed up like a bad penny. 

Enjolras tucked the cardboard sleeve into his bag – he could return it to him at the next meeting – and accepted the arm that Guillaume slipped around his hips, smiling up at him.  Guillaume didn't know Grantaire like he did and didn't realize what their relationship was like, though he hoped that by introducing him to Les Amis that would change soon.

“I love you,” Guillaume said, as they started down the hall together and Enjolras glowed.  It would all be okay.


	6. Chapter 6

Les Amis loved him. Of course, the idea of them not immediately welcoming Enjolras’ soulmate was absurd but the ease with which Guillaume fitted into the ragtag group made Grantaire’s stomach clench with jealousy. 

It made sense, of course. He wasn’t like the brief flings that Courfeyrac picked up, someone temporary who didn’t really fit beyond sharing the desire for no-string fun. He wasn’t like Montparnasse who only fit with Éponine because they forced their incompatible jagged bits together and ignored the discord. Guillaume belonged with Enjolras and Enjolras belonged with the group and the cause so it made sense that Guillaume turned out to be passionate and well-spoken. He was interested in politics and his soulmate’s interest only seemed to make him want to learn more; he eagerly jumped into debates and slid into discussions; he was insightful and respectful and friendly. Even Grantaire had to bitterly admit that he was a decent sort of fellow. If Grantaire hadn’t been a horrible, broken person who selfishly desired his own happiness over that of the person he cared for most in the world (and that in itself was so, so wrong) he probably would have really liked the guy. In no time Guillaume and Combeferre were discussing recent tuition hikes, Jehan had found he’d taken a poetry-based literary course last semester, and Bahorel, delighted by the energy and physicality that accompanied his keen intelligence, soon invited Guillaume to join him and Grantaire kickboxing some time. Grantaire smiled the best he could when he heard and agreed that he should join them.

(He would like Guillaume if it killed him. Enjolras deserved it. He deserved his soulmate, he deserved happiness. He  _would_  like Guillaume and would try not to brood every time he pulled Enjolras into tight embraces or kissed him soundly during meetings.)

Strangely enough though, he couldn’t help but feel that Guillaume didn’t like him at all. But Grantaire supposed that was just one more way that he and Enjolras were similar.

-

“Hey, ‘Aire, is everything alright?”

Grantaire dragged his gaze away from where Guillaume was holding Enjolras on his lap to look at Jehan, who had just sat down on a chair next to him.

“You’ve been very quiet tonight,” Jehan said, resting his chin in his fingers. That by itself wasn’t all that unusual – when Enjolras spoke, Grantaire listened. But there were no grandiose speech tonight beyond Enjolras reminding the room about the jobs they had to prepare for the next demonstration. Instead everyone had broken into small groups to chat. Much of the talk was about politics but Enjolras had long since given up policing these discussions and Grantaire usually took advantage to raise his drunk, raucous voice in humour or dissent, depending on his mood. Tonight though he had holed himself away at his corner table with his drink.

“They’re good together, aren’t they?” Jehan asked, a smile blooming when he saw where Grantaire had been looking. Grantaire grunted but his attention was turned back to the two soulmates. Guillaume and moved his head to Enjolras ear to whisper something; Enjolras made an aborted move to stand up but Guillaume’s laugh boomed and he pulled Enjolras back down and kissed him firmly. Something in Grantaire’s gut writhed and he turned away.

“Don’t you think?” Jehan asked and for a moment Grantaire was terrified that it was a loaded question. That Jehan guessed at his depravity. But this was Jehan and he didn’t have a cruel bone in his body.

“Did Enjolras ever strike you as the sort of person to be into PDA?” Grantaire asked sulkily instead. “It’s gross enough when it’s Joly all over his eagle but I thought we’d be safe from our dear, chaste leader following that path.”

Jehan smiled dreamily. “It’s nice to see him loosen up. Soulmates, they can improve each other, and that’s one of the loveliest things about them. He’s never seemed to like romanticism before but maybe that’s changing now that it’s a reality to him instead of an abstract concept. Maybe our very own ice prince’s heart is thawing, and by something other than his own fire. I’ll have to reintroduce him to a couple of poems…”

“Well, I think it’s disgusting,” Grantaire grumbled. “At least when I’m thinking of fucking I go back to my apartment. And your ‘ice prince’ isn’t looking too thrilled right now either.” Actually, he really wasn’t. It had been said in annoyance, but when Grantaire thought about it Enjolras really was looking exasperated. Then again, Bossuet, Joly, and Musichetta could get like that with each other too, with one being teasing and distracting while one of the others needed to get work done, and heaven knew Enjolras always had work to get done…

Ignorant to Grantaire’s internal contemplations, Jehan continued, laughing, “Everyone knows Enjolras is a workaholic. It’s good for him to be distracted and reminded of his own humanity every so often. If you ask me, you sound jealous, ‘Aire.”

“If Enjolras wants to be spoon-fed that bullshit about _somehow_ finding _one_ person that it isn't a dirtbag like the rest of the goddamn world, that's his business. I’m sure as hell not  _jealous_  of him sinking deeper into his own delusional naivety though!” Grantaire snarled, jerking up. He didn’t notice Courfeyrac looking his way in surprise or the fact that what Jehan said had been meant to be teasing, nothing more. Self-disgust had boiled over and Grantaire would go mad if he had to keep it inside.

“’Aire!” Jehan said, reaching out for him soothingly. “I didn’t mean– Don’t be angry! I only meant that Enjolras has nothing that you too won’t eventually have, you don’t need to feel sad or lonely. So please don't.” He tried to clasp Grantaire’s hand, clearly distressed that his friend was so upset. “I only meant that there is someone waiting out there for you too and–”

The glass shattered before Grantaire was even aware his hand was moving. Jehan yelped in surprise when the cup hit the ground – it had come nowhere near Jehan, Grantaire would never do that, but he had jerked his arm sharply enough to accidentally hit a cup on the table and send it crashing to the ground, startling them both with the sudden, loud noise.

“Grantaire!” Courfeyrac called, coming over to him. Everyone was staring.

“Fuck that,” Grantaire snarled, though is voice trembled, shaken.

“Grantaire?” That was Enjolras’ voice.

“Ignore him, he’s drunk.” And that was Guillaume’s. “Nothing surprising in that. Come on, ange, if anything signifies that the meeting is over, it’s this, right? Let’s go.”

Grantaire wasn’t listening though. His fists were clenched, one pressed against his thigh, and his eyes were fixed on the beer spreading through the shards of glass. Fuck this. Fuck all of this.

-

_It was a broken glass that had started it all._

_Well, not it all. He hadn’t started the barfight, hadn’t even intended to get involved; he had been relatively well-behaved, preferring to get messily drunk in a corner by himself and ignore everyone else. Honestly, he hadn't even known what it had been about. One moment he had been slowly drowning himself in caustic wine and seriously considering finding something stronger, the next his glass was spinning out of his hands and shattering on the floor._

_The clamour of a growing fight was familiar and Grantaire had grabbed for that familiarity, had wrapped it around himself in an attempt to drown out the new, the change, the hurt that even alcohol hadn’t been able to drive back. Bouncing to his feet as quickly as his drunken state would allow, he had grabbed for the man who had spilt his drink. Two harsh punches and the man was on the ground, whimpering. Stumbling over him, Grantaire fell into the throng, giving and receiving in equal measure, revelling in the so real, so grounding, so distancing ache of the bruises that were exploding like fireworks over his body. A fight was its own world and there was no room for intrusive thoughts._

_The fact that he had eventually ended up on the ground wasn’t surprising seeing as at that point in the evening even the floor had seemed to be fighting against him, reeling and bucking beneath him, but even he had to accept that there was no reason for him to have continued to lie there dumbly. He could have stumbled away, even crawled or rolled if his feet had proven that uncooperative. The fight had been wild but directionless, no one would have followed him. But he hadn’t, he had instead laid sprawled on the ground where he had dropped, arms spread like a martyr on his cross, and hadn’t even attempt to avoid the broken bottle that was being slammed down towards him._

-

“Ange, are you coming? The meeting's over, let's go.”

-

_(It had been a broken glass that'd started it all._

_Not to say it was anything._

_It wasn’t, Enjolras dutifully reminded himself._

_A surprise, that was all._

_Guillaume hadn’t told him he was coming over, that was all. He had come by to surprise his soulmate (and that word alone was enough to forgive everything, it was a warm, safe word) and had, well, succeeded._

_Enjolras had been making tea when hands had suddenly grabbed his hips and a mouth had attached itself to his neck, wet lips and hard teeth like something primordial, and he had been so scared – no, not scared, just surprised – that he had dropped the mug he was holding, splashing scalding tea over both of their feet and ankles._

_It had been a silly accident.)_

-

“That’s enough, ‘Aire.” Courfeyrac had grabbed his arm and was steering him towards the door. Leg throbbing, speaking up now that it was being remembered, Grantaire stumbled after him. 

Trailing after them Jehan called, “Are you okay?” and wasn’t that exactly like Jehan? All concern. “I’m sorry. Whatever I said, Grantaire, I’m so sorry.”

Grantaire didn’t see the look Courfeyrac shot Jehan or the rest of the room. He did hear him say “I think I’m going to make sure Grantaire gets home without anymore catastrophes. Like stumbling across anymore conveniently full and accommodating bottles. See you guys later.”

He also heard Guillaume’s final remark to Enjolras though, telling him to relax, reminding Enjolras that Courfeyrac was right, he was just a drunk, a worthless drunk, undeserving of Enjolras’ concern and best kept out of their way. (Though those might have been Grantaire’s words, not Guillaume’s. The implication was clear though.)

(Enjolras didn’t say anything else before the door closed.)

-

_Maybe he had instinctively known where the glass would embed itself._

_His voice hadn't been able to find its way up through the alcohol so he had gurlged instead of screamed and then, only then, did he pull himself away._

_The sharp edges had dragged  down through his skin and it had burnt, the hot blood had burnt, and Grantaire had just grit his teeth, trying not to throw up, and hated himself and loved the burn. He deserved the pain (he was awful, he should be hurt, he needed to be punished, to be mauled and tattered and teased by the world like a broken sparrow in a cat’s jaw) and, oh god, he  deserved  the pain (he had suffered so much, surely he deserved this one little reprieve, deserved this one little thing to make it stop, to cleanse him and ground him) and he had never wanted it to stop._

_So of course it had. The bottle was pulled away and his attacker was flung aside and hands, not gentle but protective, had grabbed him and shook him and a voice called to him. And Grantaire had thrown up._

-

“So now that  _that'_ s all sorted, we going to go?”

“Yeah, okay,” Enjolras said, turning away from the confused unease that Grantaire had left in his wake. 

Guillaume was right: a drunk unruly Grantaire was a common enough occurrence. Still, nothing else would get done tonight so he might as well head home.

-

_(The hit had been a surprise too._

_At first Enjolras hadn’t understood what was happening as he sat heavily on the floor of his kitchen, trying to make sense of the sudden, unexpected touching, and fear, and now, the burning._

_He was being grabbed at frantically, voice asking if he was okay and apologizing but Enjolras had felt painfully, uncharacteristically confused . The scene hadn't made sense._

_His skin had burnt where the tea had splashed against his feet and where it had then been soaking through his pyjama bottoms as he'd sat in the puddle on the floor. The side of his head had burnt where it had been struck._

_“ Shit, Enjolras, I’m so sorry, are you okay? You just surprised me and, damn, that really hurt. Why’d you drop the cup?”_

_“ I’m sorry,” Enjolras had said, trying to rearrange his thoughts into a shape that fit._

_Guillaume had moved away from him then to grab a rag from the sink and start to sop up the scalding tea._

_“That was really careless, ange, you could have hurt yourself!” he had scolded._

_“ I’m sorry,” Enjolras had said again. You hurt me, he didn't say._

_Gently, so gently, Guillaume had then left the rag to cup Enjolras’ face. One finger had brushed the reddening mark of the side of Enjolras’ face and he'd kissed him sweetly, apologetically. Enjolras had wished he could have just gotten up and changed into different clothes but had folded into Guillaume’s kiss instead; Guillaume was affection and loving and channelled so much passion into his love that Enjolras couldn’t deny him._

_“ Don’t apologize, love,” Guillaume had said softly. “It was all just a silly accident. Just be more careful, okay? What would I do if you got hurt? Come on, up you go.” Guillaume helped Enjolras to his feet and patted his cheek in a way that had probably been meant as reassuring but had instead made the mark sting._

_“ Oh,” Guillaume had said, scowling when he'd turned back to the mess. “That was my favourite mug.”_

_Enjolras had known that. It was the one that Guillaume always chose when he was over at Enjolras' apartment, that was why he'd been using it. It had just been a silly burst of sentimentality._

_“ I’m sure I can fix it,” Enjolras had said, considering the large chip that had broken from the rest of it. “Feuilly is good with his hands, he might be able to help…”_

_“ Don’t bother. It’s ruined now.”_

_“ Sorry…” Something had felt off in Enjolras gut – he didn’t normally apologize this often. But then again Guillaume had previously pointed out how insensitive he could be, maybe this was him growing, him beginning to learn to be more considerate about other people. He loved Guillaume and wanted him to be happy, for their relationship to flourish, and that meant owning up to mistakes instead of ignoring or attacking problems, he'd supposed._

_“You’ll just have to make it up to me,” Guillaume had said playfully, dropping the broken bits inside the mug and shoving it all to the back of the cupboard. “Why don’t you clean up this mess you made and I’ll go put on a movie and we can snuggle for a bit, okay?”_

_Enjolras had worried at his lip. He'd still had a lot of work to finish, that's what he'd been making tea for, that was why he hadn’t contacted Guillaume for the past couple days in the first place. But Guillaume had gone to the trouble of coming to see him and had gotten dosed in boiling tea for his trouble, so Enjolras had figured he'd probably owed his soulmate that much._

_“ Okay,” he'd agreed. All the uncertainty in Enjolras had melted away when Guillaume'd beamed at him. With a kiss he'd moved into the living room while Enjolras had begun to clean up the spill as quickly as he could so he'd be able to go change into something more comfortable and join his soulmate.)_

-


	7. Chapter 7

Only after they were a block away from the Musain did Courfeyrac speak again. “What the hell, ‘Aire?”

For once Grantaire had no witty remarks or snide comments to add, so he stayed silent and let most of his weight rest against Courfeyrac. It was a good thing his apartment was close.

“’Aire. Grantaire. I’m serious. And this is me! If I’m being serious you know shit’s messed up, okay?”

He was messed up. Fucked up. He was a fuck-up.

“What’s going on with you? I mean a couple nights ago I find you basically black out drunk–”

He was a worthless drunk, what more could be expected?

“–in the middle of some stupid bar fight over some girl I didn’t even think you  _knew_ –”

There had been a girl?

“–getting cut to ribbons by some psycho with a bottle that didn’t know when to let it go!”

His leg throbbed. He hurt.

Courfeyrac stopped suddenly and Grantaire nearly fell over. His head was swimming. The drink and the jealousy and the self-loathing was a noxious cocktail.

“Grantaire,” Courf said, voice suddenly much lower and much more gentle. “I didn’t talk to anyone about it because I know you didn’t want me to.”

By the time Courfeyrac had managed to drag Grantaire’s drunk ass out of the fray Grantaire had been clawing at his tattered jeans and bloody leg, sobbing incoherently for Courfeyrac not to tell, not to tell, not to tell. He hadn’t thought Courfeyrac would actually listen but let it never be said Courf didn’t always try to do the best he could for his friends.

“But I think… I think you do need to talk about it, buddy,” Courfeyrac pressed on bravely. “Talking about your feelings is very punk now, you know. What was that all about? What in the world did Jehan do that got you so upset? Don’t act like it’s not all tied together because I’m not an idiot – you’ve been acting weird for a couple weeks now and–”

“Wasn’t Jehan,” Grantaire mumbled miserably.

“It was Enjolras,” Courfeyrac said confidently and Grantaire flinched, this time actually sinking to the cold ground. Courfeyrac didn’t comment, just crouched down next to him, still patiently keeping him from tipping over entirely. Grantaire could feel him studying him, trying to discern whatever secret was bubbling so close to the surface. “Did it have something to do… Well, what Jehan was talking about, did it have something to do with your tattoo–?”

“Don’t,” Grantaire begged.

Courfeyrac was the one that had saved Grantaire from the bar fight and the one who had kept his secret. But that wasn’t all he did, and the secret Grantaire had been drunkenly blubbering about hadn’t been about him getting into another drunken brawl. Grantaire’s thigh had been bleeding angrily and it was Courf who had hauled him to the hospital to get the cuts cleaned and stitched up, and who had seen, through the ragged jeans and blood, the neat, black words that had just so happened to have been scored through by the broken bottle: _Hey, don’t listen to her_.

Courfeyrac sighed. “Okay, Capital R, but just... when you're ready to talk, y'know? Let’s get you to bed and try to make sure you don’t pass out in your own vomit.”

“Ép’s there,” Grantaire remembered suddenly to himself. Her parents had been snooping around her apartment building so she had come to hide out at Grantaire’s until that passed over.

“Excellent,” said Courfeyrac cheerfully, though he'd never met her, only knew of her from Grantaire’s occasional stories. “I love not being on hangover duty.”

He helped pull Grantaire back into a position that at least resembled standing and they began shuffling back down the sidewalk. Despite the fact that Courfeyrac kept up a companionable, if meaningless, sort of chatter Grantaire could feel himself sinking further into his own brain. He felt guilty about taking Courfeyrac away from his friends, and guilty about upsetting Jehan, and about a torrent of other things that circled around in his brain. And every step pulled at the stitches on his leg and while letting the tattoo be defaced had seemed like a great idea during last night’s drunken chaos the ache that came with it now only made Grantaire think about it more and more.

_-_

_Irma had always been standoffish. She was a beautiful woman with a beautiful tattoo and a bright, beautiful future. When friendly drinks had lead to a discussion about soulmates, mostly wishful but bordering on philosophical in the way that only a few drinks could manage - she was happy to sing her opinions to the rest of the pub. Specifically about whether someone could have more fortune when it came to being paired with a soulmate than others._

_"I don’t reckon it matters, right?" one fellow had commented. "Whoever you get, they’re perfect for you, right? Can’t improve on perfection, so there’s no way for some people to be ‘luckier’ than others. Everyone who meets they’re soulmate, right, is lucky."_

_"But finding out you have a millionaire for a soulmate would be different than finding out you have some addict or something," Irma had argued cheerfully._

_"That would depend entirely on a person’s individual views on what benefits a relationship," Grantaire himself had remarked. “I mean, the idea of someone being filthy rich and not the most pleasant of people isn’t exactly a ground breaking one, is it? And who can say what led an addict to their chosen lifestyle - personal misfortune doesn’t dictate personality or compatibility. Maybe all the addict needs in a support structure in their life to break the habit and climb to untold heights and yadda yadda other inspiration garbage. Or what if this millionaire’s soulmate is someone who’s against excessive capitalistic gain?"_

_Laughing her musical laugh she had turned to the other fellow, gesturing theatrically at Grantaire. “And there’s my point. A person may be his soulmate, may suit his temperament or whatever, but it doesn’t change the fact that his face is impossible and that’s just part of the package. To someone, I suppose, Grantaire must be a perfect match but it doesn’t mean that a prettier face wouldn’t have been appreciated along with the bargain.”_

_Grantaire had scowled but hadn't press the issue._

_"Hey, don’t listen to her."_

_Grantaire’s heart had stuttered at those words; wordlessly, he’d turned in his seat, trying to stay composed. That was a common phrase, it meant nothing,  it meant nothing…  The girl had been sitting at a booth, surrounded by friends who were all watching the two of them with barely contained excitement._

_"Your soulmate thinks you look pretty fine," she'd said, shifting the hem of her shirt slightly so Grantaire could catch a glimpse of a paragraph of black text that ran down her side that looked like it was one of his long, rambling points from earlier in the discussion._

-

“Here we go, come on, ‘Aire, I’ve seen you tear Enjolras apart for using logical fallacies while you were drunker than this, I’m sure you can still walk,” Courfeyrac grunted and they both finally crashed into the elevator in Grantaire’s building. 

“…Thanks,” Grantaire finally said when they were half way to his floor. “For this. ‘m sorry.”

Courf mussed his hair playfully. “We’re all here for you, Capital R.” The elevator dinged and the doors opened so that both of them could stumble out. “I mean it, you know. You might not have known us as long as Joly and Bossuet, but if you do want to talk, or need help, or anything, ‘Aire, you’re not alone. We’ve got you.”

And suddenly the option loomed. He hadn’t been friends with Courfeyrac anywhere near as long as Joly and Bossuet or Éponine or even Musichetta. But unlike three of those people, Courfeyrac also wasn’t madly in love with a soulmate and regularly sought out other bed companions if half his stories were to be believed. Maybe he would understand. Maybe there was some part of him that could understand where Grantaire was coming from, enough so to not to be disgusted with him at least.

As he fumbled with his key he considered this, mind becoming feverish with the thoughts. He didn’t even have to mention Enjolras, he could keep silent about that – no matter what Courfeyrac’s opinions on soulmates might be he surely wouldn’t appreciate someone wishing to steal his best friend away from his perfect match – but maybe… maybe the rest. Maybe if he just said something, got it out into the open, let the wound bleed…

The door clicked open.

Yes, okay, he was going to do it. He was going to let his stupid drunk mouth run wild and he was going to actually talk to another human being about feelings like a grown up. He could do this. It might even help. That or it would horrify Courfeyrac enough to get him kicked out of the group and even then he wouldn’t be around Enjolras anymore anyway so that was… almost a good thing. (Except for how it would be the worst thing to ever happen.)

“That you Grantaire?” Éponine’s voice called out as he entered his apartment. “We raided your fridge and made some really pathetic tacos, you want one?”

Before Grantaire could ask who the “we” was, Courfeyrac had followed him in and called out, “Pathetic ‘the vegetables are kind of limp and/or non-existent’ or pathetic ‘there’s no meat’? Because one is acceptable and the other definitely, definitely isn’t.”

Grantaire stopped dead and turned on Courfeyrac, eyes wide, because he knew those words almost as well as he knew the ones that made up his own tattoo but before he could say anything there was a shattering in the kitchen and both him and Courf were racing inward to see what had happened, at exactly the same time that another person was racing out, leading to a full on collision of the three. It probably wouldn’t have been so bad if one wasn’t drunk enough that “upright” was a subjective term, one wasn’t half exhausted from hauling the former across town, and the third wasn’t a Pontmercy, but as it was it ended with everyone on the floor moaning.

“Fuck me, are you okay?” Courfeyrac asked to the freckly stranger he’d found himself entangled with.

“Yes, fine thanks,” Marius – because who else would Éponine let into his apartment to make tacos in the middle of the night – said, staring at Courfeyrac with wide eyes.

What had been a heart-stopping moment of realization for Grantaire took the other two a few seconds to absorb. Finally Courfeyrac groaned loudly and dropped his head into his hands. “Please tell me you haven’t had 'limp vegetables' tattooed on you your entire life,” he moaned. Marius grinned sheepishly and rolled up his sleeve to show the tattoo on his shoulder that did indeed mention pathetic vegetables. Not willing to play witness to the next part of this scene, Grantaire wiggled free from the two men and stumbled into the kitchen.

Éponine was staring down what had once been a bowl and had once held salsa but both of which were now spreading over the kitchen floor like an seeping wound.

He didn’t say anything because there really wasn’t anything to say that he hasn’t been saying for years and instead just pulled Éponine into the tightest hug he could manage. To her credit, she didn’t cry or curse or anything, just pressed her head against his chest and was probably trying as hard as Grantaire himself not to hear what was happening in the other room.

After a few minutes Éponine was able to pull herself away from Grantaire, in time for Marius to reappear, hair looking rather debauched and expression dazed, as if he couldn't believe such a wonderful thing was happening to him. And really, Grantaire thought to himself, Pontmercy deserved it: he'd been getting the shit end of the stick for years, what with his crazy grandfather, and he deserved this little slice of happiness. But as much as he deserved it, Éponine didn't, and that was where Grantaire's concern currently was.

“I, wow, I…” Marius came up and gave Grantaire an enormous hug. “Thank you,” he said, and his voice was so painfully earnest, as if Grantaire being a drunk asshole who inconvencied his friends was the greatest thing he ever could have done for Marius. But the kid had always done emotions blindly and enthusiastically, like a stupid puppy.

“I, um, that… That was Courfeyrac,” Marius explained, rather inadequately after pulling back. He turned to Éponine, face radiating happiness and Grantaire watched Éponine attempt to smile. Marius, because he was an idiot, didn’t realize how brittle it was. “That, that was him, Ép. My soulmate. It’s him. He was talking about tacos. We wondered for so long and now we know it was about tacos.” He took a deep breath. “I think I’m going to go now, Ép. You and Grantaire can have my share, I’ve got to…” Mercifully he didn’t finish that thought, just turned and ran towards a stunned looking Courfeyrac who swept him into an enormous hug.

Grantaire and Éponine stayed in the kitchen until they heard the door click shut. After that, Éponine turned, kicked the counter, and swore loudly. She railed against Marius and Courfeyrac and the world at large, cursed Montparnasse and Grantaire and the stupid, awful tacos. Grantaire made some attempt to calm her, to ply her with his alcohol stash or convince her to sit with him on the couch and cuddle but she pushed past him and stormed into his room, slamming the door.

Alone, Grantaire groaned – he was too drunk for any of this – and dropped onto the couch himself. The room was Éponine’s tonight he supposed because he could hear crying from behind the door and he wasn’t about to argue the sleepy arrangements. So, with the sobbing and the silence and his own thoughts pressing in on him he stumbled briefly up and over to the liquor cabinet, grabbed the first bottle of wine his fingers curled around, and sunk back onto the couch to hopefully make the rest of this shitty evening disappear. The wine would be company enough.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I call this chapter: I've finally finished mid-terms and have time to edit again, woohoo!

“I wonder what’s gotten into Grantaire this evening,” Enjolras said, more to himself than to the man holding his hand as they walk through the quiet, night streets towards Guillaume’s apartment.

“Does it matter?” Guillaume asked. “He was drunk, it seems like a common enough occurrence. I don’t get why he’s there at all, honestly. I mean, I don’t begrudge a man his friends, but I get what you mean now when you rant about him turning up at meetings. He agrees with none of it and just wastes everyone’s time.”

“It’s not that bad…” Enjolras said, but without much heart in it. What Guillaume was saying was nothing he hadn’t said a hundred times before but for some reason it felt different coming from someone else’s mouth. “What?” he added, when he saw Guillaume staring at him with a contemplative expression.

“Jean said he thought it was jealousy,” Guillaume mused; Enjolras couldn’t understand what his expression was suppose to mean.

“It could be,” he said instead. “Not everyone is as fortunate as us.”

Guillaume beamed at this and engulfed Enjolras immediately in a kiss. Enjolras held it for a few seconds before pushing Guillaume away as gently as he could, murmuring “That’s enough…

“You’re adorable,” Guillaume chuckled, rubbing his hair before reaching over and sticking his hand in Enjolras’ back pocket.

Enjolras tried not to fidget at the unwelcome weight but levelled a glare at his soulmate when he squeezed which just made Guillaume laugh again. There was no point arguing about it thought because they were at Guillaume's apartment minutes later and Guillaume had to remove his hand so that he could get the door open. The sensation of pressing fingers lingered afterwards though, as did its implications, making Enjolras feel uncomfortable as he settled onto Guillaume’s couch.

“Coffee?” Guillaume offered.

“No thank you.”

“Okay.” And suddenly Guillaume was leaning over him, hands bracketing either side of his head and grin suggestive. “How about  _coffee_ then?”

“What?”

To Enjolras’ relief, Guillaume pulled away with a chuckle. “You are so adorable I can’t stand it! You are such a virgin, ange.” He dropped down onto the couch and pulled Enjolras onto his lap to kiss at his neck.

With a deep breath, Enjolras intentionally pushed himself away from Guillaume. “We need to talk about this.”

Guillaume frowned. “About what?”

He had nothing to worry about, Enjolras told himself. They'd never really had to have any major “talks” as a couple, so it made sense that he was a little nervous right now, but he had a right to security and he was not the sort to let his convictions or feelings be ignored. So he told Guillaume: “The amount of… affection you show in public. It makes me uncomfortable.” 

Guillaume’s face darkened. “What, am I  _embarrassing_ you? Are you ashamed of me?”

“What? No! No, it’s not that. It’s… me.”

“’Not you it’s me’, nice.”

“No, that’s not what I mean either! It’s just… the amount of physical intimacy, especially during meetings, it’s distracting.”

“It’s suppose to be,” Guillaume said, nudging him playfully.

Enjolras strongly suspected he and Guillaume weren’t talking about the same sort of distraction, and that the distraction Guillaume intended wasn’t something Enjolras had felt at all. Ever.

“Look, I don’t see why you’re making a big deal out of this,” Guillaume snapped when Enjolras’ decided expression didn’t sway. “Is it really so bad that your soulmate is showing how much he loves you? If anything I should be annoyed, not you – you don’t exactly reciprocate, don’t think I haven’t noticed! Don’t you care about me?”

“No, of course I do, I love you…”

“Then why is this an issue?”

Why was it an issue? Enjolras wished he could explain what was happening in his head. “I just don’t like it…” He was sure he’d had a better argument when he'd started but it seemed to be gone, stripped bare to a single, petulant point that no longer seemed to hold any weight. If he’d made an argument like this during a debate Grantaire would have mocked him endlessly.

“This is a relationship, Enjolras. Between two people. It’s not the same as you leading your little group like a king–” Enjolras wanted to contest that point but Guillaume pressed on. “–and so it’s not _only_ about what you want. Really, can’t you think about other people occasionally? And I don’t mean ‘the entire world’, I mean just one individual person. Ange…” He placed his arms tenderly around Enjolras and smiled so sweetly at him. “Ange, I love you. I know you try, and the work you do– it’s amazing. _You’re amazing._ Don’t ever think I don’t support you one hundred percent in your work, but _I’m_ here too. Not the world, not the people just... me, and I need a partner, not a leader. Can we please be a team in this? Let me love you, just… just let me have that.”

Had he really been so commandeering? “I’m sorry,” Enjolras whispered.

“Hey, none of that. It’s okay, you’re forgiven. You’re new to this, I understand, you still getting use to it.”

That must be it.

“Here, how about I help you…” said Guillaume, playfully, and then his fingers were in the buttons of Enjolras’ shirt and Enjolras felt his brain turn off and he was pretty sure it wasn’t in the good way that Courfeyrac talked about. Oh god. The shirt was unbuttoned and Guillaume was sliding sensuous fingers over Enjolras’ skin. “Look at how beautiful you are for me,” Guillaume murmured, moving closer and dipping his head to kiss just below Enjolras’ collarbone.

Finally his brain seemed to restart and he was able to reach up a hand and grip one of Guillaume’s wrists. “Don’t.”

Guillaume pulled back and he looked so hurt that Enjolras felt his stomach tighten painfully. He didn’t want to hurt his soulmate.

“Enjolras, you’re nervous, I get it, okay? I really do. But you don’t need to be scared. Do you think I’d hurt you?”

“Never.”

“So trust me,” he said, smiling and bringing his hands up to rest possessively against the hem of Enjolras’ jeans. Right then and there Enjolras decided never wanted his jeans to come off his body ever, ever again.

“Not yet, please. I’m… I’m not ready for this yet.” He would never be. He would never be ready for this. Oh god, people made it sound like these sorts of things worked out but Enjolras didn’t want it, he did not want this.

“That’s why now is good, Enjolras! You seem so nervous but you should never be nervous. You’re so strong and brave and if you let me show you now how physical intimacy isn’t something to be scared of we can move past this.”

There was sense to what he was saying, but still…

“Please, not tonight.”

Guillaume sighed, long and put upon. “Jeez, ange, you can’t just get me this excited and then not expect me to do something about it. Do you even realize how hot you are? It should be a crime. But fine, it’s only been a few weeks, a little longer can hardly hurt at this point, if you’re going to be such a blushing maiden about it.”

Mutely, Enjolras nodded, relieved but embarrassed.

Guillaume stood up and kissed the top of Enjolras’ head. “Now, unless you change your mind and decide to come to bed with me I’m going to take care of the mess you’ve given me. Feel free to stay over if you like.”

“Good night,” Enjolras said as Guillaume disappeared down the hall into his room, suddenly struck by how much he didn’t want to be alone in the living room. For all he had wanted nothing more than to have Guillaume’s hands off him (he needed to work on that, that surely wasn’t an appropriate way for a soulmate to feel) he was now realizing that he felt a need for reassurance that was uncommon for him and was wishing that Guillaume had stayed with him. This wasn’t a subject he was well-versed in and wasn't one he could just take to Combeferre or Feuilly to run ideas by; with Guillaume gone he was completely alone in this. After a moment of contemplation, Enjolras stood up and grabbed his coat; if he hurried he could catch the next train towards his and Courfeyrac’s apartment.

He was too distracted to even read his emails on the train and fidgeted the entire way back to his apartment. The moment he stepped inside though he felt calm settle back over him. This was his space, he was in control here (and maybe Guillaume was right, maybe he was too much of a control freak). The lights were on and he could hear Courfeyrac moving around somewhere.

And maybe... he had been too quick to think himself alone, earlier. This certainly wasn’t a problem he could take to Combeferre or Feuilly, certainly, but Courfeyrac was the resident romance expert – excluding Jehan, but Jehan’s idea of romance tended to involve tragic deaths a little too often for Enjolras – and one of Enjolras’ oldest friends. If anyone could help Enjolras make sense of what he was experiencing, it was Courfeyrac. Maybe... maybe he could even explain the Cup Incident, because Enjolras was sure it was bothering him more than a stupid little accident should.

Resolved to speak to Courf as soon as possible, Enjolras made his way to Courfeyrac's room, but the door suddenly bounced open before he could even raise his hand to knock. Courfeyrac bounded out, and, unlike Enjolras, didn't seem at all phased to suddenly find himself nose-to-nose with his roommate; instead he burst right into conversation.

“ _Enj-ol-ras!_ ” he sang, basically throwing himself at his roommate. “Enjolras! I did it! I’ve met him! His name is Marius Pontmercy and he is the biggest dweeb I have ever seen in my life and he is _perfect_!”

“What? Courf, what’s happened?”

“My  _soulmate_ , Enjolras!” Courfeyrac pretended to swoon in his arms and it was all Enjolras could do to keep him from crashing to the floor. “I walked Grantaire home and he was at his apartment making tacos! My soulmate was in the kitchen, bare foot, at, like, midnight making tacos with carrots in them!”

“That– that’s wonderful!” Enjolras said, and meant it. He had never seen Courfeyrac look so happy, a feat in and of itself.

“You’ll love him, Enjolras! Actually, no, you’ll probably hate him a little but you have to pretend for me and you’ll eventually love him because he’s a giant cute loser with _freckles_!”

“Of course I’ll like him,” Enjolras assured him, “he’s your soulmate.”

And that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it. This “Marius Pontmercy” was Courfeyrac’s soulmate, he was perfect for him, he was a natural, biological match, how could Enjolras not like him? Soulmates were meant to be together. They were the human embodiment of camaraderie, togetherness, strength as a unit instead of divided – they worked things out.

“I didn’t want to leave him at all tonight but he was getting all shy and flustered and prudish – you know, all Victorian era oh-good-sir-you-mustn’t-see-the-inside-of-my-bedchamber-it-would-be-indecent–”

Well, Enjolras mused, perhaps these feelings were more common than he had anticipated. Courfeyrac didn’t seem upset or surprised or like he felt that his soulmate was in some way broken for wanting space. He had backed off and handled it as respectfully and patiently as Guillaume had.

“Anways, we’re meeting tomorrow to go on a date – a real, proper date! – and now I can’t sit still or sleep because all I can think about is him! Enjolras!” He buried his face against Enjolras chest and hugged him as hard as he could. Enjolras wondered why he felt so at ease holding Courf like this when he had felt so uncomfortable in Guillaume’s arms. “I’m so happy.”

There was no way Enjolras could bring up his concerns now. Courfeyrac had just found his soulmate and he was too happy to bring down, especially with something that would seem so ridiculous. It was like Enjorlas had forgotten what a gift a soulmate was until Coufeyrac had reminded him. Everything would be okay, he told himself as he let Courf snuggle up to him and talk his ear off about Marius Pontmercy.

And it was. More or less. For the next few months at least.

And then things broke.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for quite a graphic rape scene  
> and further reminder that this story is based heavily around a sexually and emotionally abusive relationship and there will be further scenes like this coming up, as well as allusions back to them and their repercussions

Later, Enjolras would blame it on all kinds of things. The alcohol was one. Enjolras was never one for drinking, but a rally that they had been organizing for the past few months had just gone off without a hitch – that is to say there were a lot of people in attendance, no one got arrested, and only Bahorel got a broken nose but he had started the fight anyway so after Joly made sure it was relocated no one was too concerned – and celebrations were in full swing at Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta’s shared apartment. Enjolras might not like to drink as a rule but he wasn’t hard to ply with the celebratory wine because sometimes nice things were earned and should be enjoyed. Besides, it was a very good wine.

“Come on, you have to taste it at least,” Jehan had told him, holding out a filled glass. “Grantaire brought it so you know it’s a good one.”

Enjolras had eyed the glass with increased apprehension. “Grantaire drinks the alcoholic equivalent of paint thinner,” he pointed out dubiously.

Bahorel had laughed and strolled up, happy to pluck the glass from Jehan’s hand if Enjolras wasn’t going to take it. “The man knows his alcohol,” he said happily as he swallowed it down. “Doesn’t always have the sense or money to drink it, but he knows how to get a good wine.”

“Grantaire wasn’t even there,” Enjolras had said. “He was telling us how pointless it was up until we were packing the supplies last night!”

Jehan had just rolled his eyes. “He is our friend,” he'd pointed out patiently. “Maybe he’s happy for us. Drink the wine, Enjolras.” Enjolras had chose not to comment on Grantaire’s happiness being entirely supposition seeing how the drunk had disappeared completely – probably to a corner, indulging too much in his own gift.

With some trepidation, Enjolras had accepted a newly filled glass and then refused to admit that it was actually delicious. And from that point over the course of the evening he drank two and a half glasses (he would have had three if Bossuet hadn’t accidentally finished the rest of it believing it was his).

So really it was at least _partially_ his fault.

But it wasn’t Guillaume’s fault, was it? So maybe it was _entirely_ his? But that didn’t sound right either. Nobody’s fault? The wine’s fault? Jehan’s for making him take some or Grantaire’s for bringing such a good one? Enjolras just didn’t know anymore. He was tired of thinking about it. He was tired.

Because the facts were that they had been celebrating and Enjolras had chosen to drink more than he was accustom to and he was feeling warm and happy and high off success when he agreed to go home with the equally enthusiastic Guillaume.

“–and Lesgle’s face when he realized it wasn’t Bahorel’s back he’d climbed on!” Guillaume laughed as he let them into the apartment.

Remembering the noise Bossuet had made when he'd realized he’d clambered onto a stranger’s back during the protest made Enjolras dissolve into giggles. The wine loosened him up though and he found he couldn't stop, so he just sunk to the floor and held his stomach, overwhelmed by a story that was funnier than it should be and the aching love he felt for all his friends who had helped make the rally such a success.

“You’re beautiful like this.”

Looking up at Guillaume standing over him he felt consumed. He was so happy and he loved this man so much – Guillaume had done so much for them, had been at Enjolras’ side every step of the way. He had made sure Enjolras didn’t go crazy while he tried to juggle all the work that needed to be done and brought great ideas to the table during planning. (And if sometimes it seemed like he got a little handsy or bold or demanding Enjolras saw it as an opportunity to remind himself that he had to make some allowances in a relationship; it was a lesson, it was good for him.) Love surging, Enjolras followed it up and threw his arms around Guillaume and kissed him, cuddling into his chest.

“Hey there,” Guillaume said fondly, stroking Enjolras hair. “You did so good. The protest was great. I’m really proud of you.”

“Thank you. For everything,” Enjolras said into his chest.

“Wow, your face is really warm, you drank quite a bit, didn’t you?” Guillaume laughed, stroking his cheek. “Let’s go lie down.”

Enjolras was happy to let Guillaume lead him into the bedroom and curl up on the bed next to him and just bask in the perfection of the world around him. Soon the success-high and the wine would wear off and Enjolras would realize again how much more work there was to do, but he would take this moment and enjoy it.

“Beautiful,” Guillaume murmured, kissing Enjolras cheek. And then his mouth. Enjolras met him happily and was the one of cup Guillaume’s face and deepen the kiss. But he was also the one that tried to pull away first, only to be stopped by the hand that had curled around the back of his head.

“Gui…” he murmured against Guillaume’s lips, only to have Guillaume moan a little and shift closer.

Enjolras felt Guillaume’s thighs and stomach and something that wasn’t either of those press against his side and he stiffened as Guillaume’s free hand reached around and clutched at his bottom.

“Gui, don’t,” Enjorlas said. Trying to move away from the hand gripping his ass though only caused him to grind against the erection pressed against his front; Guillaume moaned appreciatively into his neck. “ _Guillaume_!”

“Enjolras,” Guillaume moaned back. “God you feel good.”

“ _Don’t_.”

“Oh for the love of god, Enjolras.” Guillaume performed a confusing motion that suddenly found him straddling Enjolras' waist. Staring up at his soulmate’s face, Enjolras felt a flicker of something — fear? — that was foreign to him, numbing. “Why do you have to be such a prude? I keep telling you, this’ll feel good.”

“I don’t – I don’t care, Gui! I don’t want to! Not now, please not now,” Enjolras said, the force in his voice crumbling as Guillaume’s hands began to run down his torso, catching on his button and exposing his chest to chilly air.

“Not now, not now, not now,” Guillaume mimicked. “That’s all I ever get from you! It’s been  _months_ , ange, when were you planning ‘now’ to being?”

_Never!_ he wants to scream.

“Jesus fucking Christ, I’ve said you can be selfish, but this is unbelievable. Were you really just going to withhold sex from me forever? Why do you treat me like this? I can’t love you anymore than I am but you keep trying to stop me and I don’t understand it, Enjorlas!” Not once through all of this had his beautiful, clever, insidious fingers been still; Enjolras’ shirt had been wrestled out from under him and the button of his jeans was undone, underwear now exposed to Guillaume’s thirsty eyes. Enjolras was gripping his arms, clinging desperately, but he couldn’t bring himself to physically push Guillaume away. It would take strength that Enjolras wasn’t sure he had, it would take force and determination and cruelty that he didn’t know he could muster. So instead he held Guillaume, prayed his fingers would find sense, _mercy_ hidden among the shirtsleeves.

“Well?” Guillaume demanded. “Do you love me or not?”

Something was wrong. Enjolras knew that there was something in this that didn’t feel right, something in the gears of his mind was not fitting, was digging in and _fighting_ , but he couldn’t place it, the wine was making his thoughts swim and the feeling of wrong just became vague nausea.

Before, he had prayed that his soulmate wouldn’t want sex because  _he_  didn’t want sex but that went against everything, didn’t it? Soulmates had sex. That was how it worked, that was part of the deal, that was part of  _love_. He was selfish. Guillaume was right, nothing was wrong except him.

“I love you,” Enjolras whispered.

“I don’t want to hurt you, ange,” Guillaume said gently, stroking his face. Enjolras resisted the urge to turn his head away. “I don’t want to scare you. Please, let me love you?”

After a moment: a nod. Small and reluctant, but there. He could do this. He loved Guillaume, and he would let Guillaume love him. He wouldn’t be selfish, he could be strong for something as important as this.

His pants followed the shirt, then underwear and socks until he was covered only by the bed at his back and Guillaume’s inquisitive hands.

“You as well,” Enjolras begged, hands reaching up to Guillaume’s shirt. He had never had a problem with seeing his soulmate bare-chested before, had even appreciated it like he appreciated all the rest of Guillaume, but now he desperately didn’t want to see it, felt sick by the implication of it. But he also couldn’t stand to be the only one laid bare and he hoped he wouldn’t feel so hunted, that his heart would calm down, if they were made equals in this.

Guillaume of course knew none of what was slopping around Enjolras head. “I knew you’d get into it.”

Button. Fingers twisted it sideways so it could be slipped from the hole it was held in. Without the button anchoring it, the shirt felt open slightly more, exposing bear chest underneath. (Enjolras breathed in.) Five more buttons followed. More skin was exposed each time. (Enjolras breathed out.) Fabric bunched, an arm was slipped out. (Stick to the facts. Facts were safe. There was no room for emotions in facts, facts simply were.) Then the next. (Enjolras swallowed. And again. His throat was too dry. Why was it so dry – no, facts only. Breathe out.) Then the shirt fell to the floor, covering Enjolras’ completely. The button of his jeans was undone. Pants slid down, boxers tangled in them and removed in one go. (Too fast. Those were two separate steps, don’t combine them, don’t don’t  _don’t_ – Stop. Breathe in. Facts. He could do this. He loved Guillaume.) Both dropped to the ground. They were naked. There was no more clothing. Enjolras had been wrong, it had been better with at least one clothed. (He could do this.) Guillaume’s erection bobbed, large and veined and threatening, and  _Enjolras felt his stomach roll he could not do this he could not do this it was disgusting he needed it to stop to stop to stop now_  – breathe.

“Enjoying the show?” Guillaume asked, running his hands possessively over Enjolras’ body (leaving lines of goosebumps, of slime, of wrong wrong _wrong_ ).

Enjolras understood the question though:  __Do you love me?_ _  So he answered “Yes.”

(No.)

Guillaume was still trapping Enjolras’ body between his thighs and Enjolras could feel every awful muscle shift when he reached over the bedside table and pulled out a bottle. Battling detachment and terror (the former was better, he would rather the former, the latter was making his heart feel like it was about to suffocate him) he watched as Guillaume spread ooze from the bottle over his fingers.

He didn’t know what was going to happen. Not really. He had a vague understanding based around lewd jokes and implication in movies and from the stories told by Courfeyrac (no, no, no he couldn’t think about Courfeyrac. Not now, not here. Courfeyrac was happiness and friends and warmth and he had a soulmate and he couldn’t be allowed here) and Grantaire.

(He was surprised by the way he clung to the idea of Grantaire. Normally he avoided thinking about the skeptic too much but Grantaire was _solid_. He got into bar fights and he won, he was stocky and unmoveable and resilient and snarky. He could catch and hold heavy ceramic sculptures and cut delicate pieces of paper to free a picture. He was sarcastic and jaded and bitter and he wouldn’t be dirtied by being in Enjolras’ head right now.)

(Was it wrong to think about someone else during sex with your soulmate? Probably. Enjolras couldn’t bring himself to care.)

So no, Enjolras didn’t know what to expect. But he wasn’t surprised when Guillaume forced a single, greased finger into his ass, not really. But he was. He really really was.

“Stop  _screaming_ , what the fuck is your problem?”

Enjolras stopped, but only because Guillaume had slapped a hand across his face that left him dazed and confused. He still sniffed. He hurt. It was wrong and hurt and sick. Guillaume still had an erection and Enjolras closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see it.

“See what you made me do? If he keep squirming you’ll make me accidentally hurt you! Will you stay still already? And  _shut – up_?”

_Yes._  (No.) “Please stop.”

“For fuck’s sake I haven’t even started, it’s normal for it to hurt at little at first. Give me a minute, will you?”

(It was one finger. He could do one finger. It would stop hurting, Guillaume said it would. A finger was small, he could do this he could do this he could could could)

It wasn’t one, it was two and Enjolras sobbed. One was too much, two couldn’t be happening, it couldn't possibly fit.

He didn’t care if he was being selfish anymore, he needed to get away. He wiggled away and it  _hurt_  like Guillaume said it would but he tried to pull away but Guillaume was yelling and grabbing at him and Enjolras panicked and struck out. There was enough force behind it that Guillaume reeled back and Enjolras fell off the bed.

For a moment, there was silence while Enjolras felt the coarse fabric of jeans press into his cheek. Uncertainly, ready to run, Enjolras got shakily to his knees and looked back onto the bed where Guillaume was hunched over, hands pressed against his face. “Gui…?”

In a second though, Guillaume had jerked up, nail marks a stark red against his cheek, and had leapt from the bed to Enjolras.

“You little bitch!” he screamed as he knocked Enjolras onto his front, his head snapping against the bedroom floor, making lights dance in his eyes. “What the fuck was that?”

“I d-don’t want–” Enjolras tried to explain but the words were drowned by alcohol, by fear, by absolute inadequacy and it wasn’t _fair_ because words were his, words were his strength but he had no strength here.

“You said ‘yes’!” Guillaume snarled and that wasn’t a lie. He had said yes. “Don’t play the hurt little victim, ange, you said you were ready. Besides, I’m your soulmate, you owe me this! You’re lucky I let you make excuses for this long!” 

The rest went too quickly.

Too slowly too, because the minutes, seconds, dragged, lasted a lifetime, trapped Enjolras in an eternity, but also too quickly because Guillaume didn’t care for the one finger two finger progression any longer. For all it had hurt, Enjolras – when he could get the air between wet gasp – begged for it, for the painful ease and patience. (He was slapped and told to be quiet.)

Two fingers shoved roughly in out in out  _three_  (a sob, begging, a hit, warning) inoutinout reaching _probing_ so much burning _slipping_. Writhing made it worse but Enjolras could no more stay still than could an animal with its leg in a trap.

When Guillaume forced his dick in Enjolras gave up being quiet and screamed into his sobs, begging, begging, _begging_ for any reprieve, for this to please stop, _please_. Guillaume shoved one of their shirts into his mouth, muffling him and giving Enjolras something to dig his teeth into besides his ravaged lips. (Small blessings. Take them. Cherish them.)

( _ _“_ Life’s a bitch. She’ll give you jack-all, and honestly that’s for the best.” Grantaire had been remarkably drunk and irate that night. Joly and Bossuet had looked concerned, Enjolras remembered, but he had only been angry at the interruption. “When she does give you something, it’s usually the last thing you want and all you can do is lie back, think of France, and fucking take it. But hey, vive la révolution, eh, Enjolras?” He couldn’t remember what had been interrupted anymore. _)

It was an eternity. Surely the entire night must have caved in around them and dropped them into some awful, endless purgatory because this couldn’t still be happening. The stretching burn was his everything no matter how hard he tried to heed Guillaume’s advice to relax, to loosen up, to let it happen and enjoy it ( _“You’re like fucking stone, Apollo. Try to loosen up for us mortals on occasion, how about?” Grantaire had been trying to make him smile. Enjolras had only scowled harder._ ) In and out, drag and shove, it was his heartbeat, his ragged breath, his life now, and it would never end.

Except when it did. He felt Guillaume’s hands dig into his hips with bruising force and the rhythm of the burning stuttered and hotness spilled into him, making everything burn all the more, but then Guillaume moved back, pulling out entirely and though Enjolras tensed for the forced re-entry it never came. Guillaume patted one of his sweaty shoulders and said, breathing heavily, “See, not so bad, right? God, you aren’t half a mess though. Go get cleaned up then come to bed, we’ll snuggle for a bit.”

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: immediate rape aftermath, vomiting

And then Enjolras was alone.

Not alone, of course, because he could hear Guillaume getting into bed, hear him shift and breath and sigh contentedly, but he wasn’t being touched anymore and it was the best feeling in the world. He didn’t take the time to revel in it though – as quickly as he could he forced himself onto his knees ( _burning burning it hurt please he just wanted to curl up on the floor and never move again_ ) and then his feet and, by leaning heavily on the wall, was able to stumble from the bedroom and get to the bathroom.

A detached click and the light filled the room, blinding him and battling against the darkness that clung to him like a second skin; another click and the door was locked, trapping him in, trapping _him_ out. A final click of porcelain on porcelain and the toilet covered was raised and Enjolras was able to drop heavily onto his knees and vomit. Vomit and sob and keen. 

The need for action, reaction, burnt under his skin like bile. He needed to _do_  something but there was nothing _to_ do.

He couldn’t stand to do anything every again but the evening, the next day, the rest of his _life_ loomed terrifyingly in front of him.

Thinking at all was horrifying but he found he couldn’t find that semblance of numbness that he had clung to while it was all happening. It made him think about how he would be seen tomorrow, by friends and professors and perfect strangers, how he would have to step outside with all his broken bits on display for the world. It made him think about how Guillaume would be expecting him to come to bed soon. It made him think about what had happened, made it all replay in over-exposed, technicoloured horror.

His stomach knotted and he curled over the toilet again, body fighting to eject whatever there was to be rid of, as if that could expel the feelings of disgust and horror and betrayal that sat heavy in his stomach.

Oh god.

There was nothing else in his stomach to throw up but it didn’t stop, his body dry-heaving pathetically and all he could think of was Guillaume, too big, too much, too soon coming at him and coming and coming again, burning with each intrusion and not _stopping_ and then Enjolras couldn’t keep from sobbing anew as he tried to gag out spit and stomach acid.

He was disgusting. (He had rejected his soulmate, he was disgusting.) His lips and teeth and chin were covered with fluid, bitter and choking, and snot ran down his nose and tears were making his eyes burn. (He hadn’t been able to love his soulmate, he was disgusting.) They weren’t the only orifices oozing fluid over him but he couldn’t think about that, couldn’t think,  _couldn’t think_.

What could he do?

Guillaume had said to get cleaned up.

Enjolras latched onto that because at least it was something. Anything was better than hugging a toilet and trying to keep himself from shaking out of his skin. So he dragged himself away and turned on the shower head, turned it up until it burnt his skin when he stepped in, and it hurt so much but in such a different way than before and the difference was good. Maybe it would burn off the taint that covered him now, boil and purify and cleanse. In the end, he sat hunched in the slippery bathtub, huddled against the cold inside him and burning heat outside and made a half-hearted attempt to scrub the night off his skin.

(He cleaned lower too. He tried not to think about it. Refused to look. Pretended that the tears were from the shower when the pain became to much. There was blood but that didn’t bear thinking about either. There was less than he expected anyway.)

He didn’t get out until the hot water was gone and he skin was puckered. When he did he shuffled, biting his bleeding lip against the pain that shot through his body with each movement and finally stopped to lean against the counter, unsure what to do next.

He felt lost. He never felt lost. He always had a plan, a goal, a mission, he always knew what needed to be done. He wanted to call Combeferre because Combeferre was his guide when his resolve and passion needed a clearer direction. He couldn’t do that though; Combeferre, while not as adverse as Enjolras was, had no interest in crude discussions of sex. Besides, you weren’t suppose to “kiss and tell” or whatever that expression was, right? That would be breaking a confidence between soulmates.

Still, he might have anyway, might have called Combeferre and choked out the disgusting, private, horrible details like throw up and beg for Combeferre to make it better. Might have if his phone wasn’t in the pocket of his pants back in Guillaume’s bedroom. He had nothing. He was naked and his skin was raw and bruised and he had never felt so lost in his life. What could he do? Where could he go?

There was really only one option, so after he had given himself a moment to gather himself he shuffled away from the bathroom and back to the bedroom. For a long moment, he eyed his pile of clothes on the floor. Then slowly crept to where he kept a change of clothes in one of Guillaume’s drawers and pulled on a pair of pyjamas and very slowly, very carefully, so as not to jostle any injury, curled up on the bed next to his soulmate.

He didn’t know what else to do.

-

 


	11. Chapter 11

Enjolras woke first. This was the norm even on a regular day; he always seemed to have a hundred and one thoughts racing around in his mind and they always managed to have him awake and out of bed earlier the rest of him might prefer. Today though it wasn’t the thoughts – though they tore around in his head like a wild animal in a cage – that woke him, but his body.

It hurt. All over. The earlier pain had steeped through the night and had become a duller, more pervasive ache that extended from his head where it had been been knocked against the ground, to his toes which had kicked against the floor and had cramped from curling in on themselves, to everything in between.

For a while, Enjolras didn’t move, just lay in bed and tried to will the hurt away because it _shouldn’t_ hurt. Guillaume had said a little pain was normal but surely,  _surely_ , it wasn’t suppose to be like __this__. The hurt didn’t fade and instead Enjolras just found himself hyper-focused on the solid heat at his back and the steady breathing of a second body.

He was terrified, he realized, almost surprised. He didn’t move because he couldn’t, his muscles were too drawn and tense to even think it. The fear was like a tangible creature in his throat and he didn’t want to get out of bed because he was genuinely afraid of Guillaume waking up and catching him. Enjolras blinked into the rising sun that peaked through the bedroom blinds, thoughtful amidst the terror.

That was… wrong, surely. As a human being, he had a right to security. He had a right to feel safe and comfortable, to live his life without fear of another human being. In fact if this had been anyone else, if this had been one of his friends and they had told him about feeling such a way around _anyone_ he would have been enraged, would have been on a war path. Who was he to exclude himself? _This was wrong_. The conviction stuck and terror was forced back slightly by a growing flame of indignation in his chest. Why should he have woken up bruised and scabbed and in pain? Sex was between two people, yet Guillaume had none of the marks to show for it that Enjolras had – though that thought died immediately in his head, guilt at ever wishing harm on his soulmate quelling it. But still, surely this had to be not just wrong, but a criminal offence. It had to be.

(Rape.)

He hadn’t been able to stand thinking it last night, convinced by Guillaume’s confidence, by societal expectation, by his own love, that it couldn’t be that. Not  _that_. He had consented; it was his  _soulmate_.

( _"No one fucking promised that soulmates were 'everything good in the world', as you so ridiculously put it. They're as much faulty, miserable humans as everyone else.”_

 _Grantaire's voice rang out in his head. The words had enraged him at the time as they'd argued yet again over the nature of soulmates, but now those same words sat heavy at the edge of his memory. He didn't know what to make of them now, could stand to think about them._ )

But had he really consented? Hadn't he begged for it to stop? And… and so what. Soulmate or not, Guillaume _was_ still a human being, same as him.  They were equals.

The cold light of morning was less forgiving than the evening's shadows. Bruises had darkened. Alcohol had faded. And fury was gradually replacing fear. This wasn’t right.  _This was not right._

There was only one thing to do now. Well no, that was probably a lie. If Combeferre had been here he would have pointed out that there was always _options, Enjolras, options_  but Combeferre wasn’t here. He couldn’t be involved so there was no one to temper the immediate conviction that Enjolras latched onto. There was only one thing to do.

He had to go to the police.

There had been a crime committed against his person, an assault. ( a rape ) It was his duty to go to the police.

_But it was Guillaume._

Enjolras ignored the doubt and carefully, oh so carefully, extracted himself from Guillaume’s bed and pulled clean clothes from his spot in the dresser. Movement was excruciating; it was unbelievable how difficult simple tasks like dressing yourself became when your body was fighting you every step of the way. He chose a button-up shirt to avoid needing to strain his stiff shoulders. He nearly fell as he struggled to pull on pants – sweatpants even, something he normally couldn’t stand wearing if he wasn’t exercising, but tight jeans were unthinkable and the soft, fleecy inside was a comforting touch that he needed. Tying his shoes was out of the question and socks were more of a bother than they were worth so he just shoved his feet into his sneakers as they were. As soon as he had his coat he slipped out of the apartment and started shuffling down the cold, morning street, pulling out his phone and calling for a taxi as he went.

_This is his soulmate, oh god, what is he doing. Was he really going to seek legal action against his soulmate? Who did that? He couldn’t do this._

He would.

He had always been a man of action and he had to do something.

-

There was a strange relief in getting to huddle into the back of the cab when it pulled up next him. The seat was grubby and it smelt of stale cigarettes but it was warmer than outside and it wasn’t Guillaume’s. There was freedom in its anonymity and Enjolras sunk against the seat, dragged back by weariness that was only again reasserting itself now that he was… well, not maybe no safe but _away_.

_You’re going to file a police report against your soulmate. You love him, this is wrong._

It was wrong for him to only feel safe in the back of a cab.

-

Grantaire woke up stiff, hungover as fuck, and irritable. He was staring up at the underside of a chair and his throbbing head was pressed against a hard, wooden floor. He moaned.

“Good morning to you too, ‘Aire.”

Bossuet was a morning person and it was fucking disgusting. Grantaire expressed these sentiments by moaning loud and guttural at his friend, closing his eyes again. It was too early to stare at the loose threads and dust of some chair he’d apparently fallen asleep under last night. He needed another five hours and a miracle to take away his hangover before he was willing to consider it.

“I have pain killers, coffee, and toast.”

Grantaire made a slightly happier moaning sound.

By the time he had crawled out from under the chair and had fallen in the vague direction of the kitchen the coffee was lukewarm but still heavenly.

“W’appen’?”

Bossuet, who spoke fluent Grantaire in all its varied dialects, informed him that he had drunk himself silly, would probably be able to find Youtube videos of it all later today, and finally collapsed under the chair and clung to the legs so tightly that everyone had eventually given up trying to coax him out and he had been left to the triad’s tender mercies, the party having been held at their apartment.

For a while they were quiet while Grantaire slumped against the table, nibbling at the cold, slightly burnt toast and waiting for the painkillers to kick in. It was only after Grantaire had started to look a little less dead that Bossuet decided it was safe to start rattling around the kitchen, preparing breakfast for his soulmates.

Grantaire watched his friend silently, eyes unavoidably trailing back up to the words on the back of his head. The story that went along with the words was sweet and bizarre and perfectly them, and involved Bossuet biking home in the evening only to accidentally hit a curb and fly into some poor pedestrian. A poor, hypochondriac pedestrian who had been running to his doctor's office in a panic and who had then squawked, from underneath a dazed Bossuet, “Oh thank god– listen I'm probably about to die but can you tell me what colour my tongue is?” Bossuet, bewildered and terrified, had responded: “But I didn't even hit you that hard, please don't die!”

Since then Joly would often proclaim that he had been saved from near death by true love's kiss. It was so cute Grantaire would frequently make little gagging sounds when it was being retold, but he did loved it all the same. Sometimes it almost made him want to tell his own story, tell them about the beautiful, clever, indomitable girl that had listened to her soulmate rant drunkenly about soulmates for a full ten minutes before saying anything. Almost.

For the longest time Bossuet had believed he would never have a soulmate. Grantaire remembered when they had first met, remembered the sad looks Bossuet had got when he saw the line of text of Grantaire’s thigh peak out from shorts that had ridden up. He'd always played it off, pretended to laugh, treating it like another bit of bad luck, but it was obvious that it upset him – scared him even. Everyone had a soulmate, what sort of person did you have to be not to have your perfect, biological match waiting out there for you somewhere? Not everyone found them, and Bossuet had thought he might almost have been able to resign himself to being one of those people just so long as he still _had_ one, because at least then there was still someone _somewhere_. In moments like that, Grantaire had wanted to tell him it could be worse, because he had already met his soulmate by then. Met and lost. But Grantaire never did say that to him, he didn’t talk about it, not even to hilarious, inordinately unlucky law students who became such fast friend.

Well, Grantaire had never seen anyone so happy to start balding in his twenties. He could still remember the night – morning, technically it had been morning – that Bossuet had appeared, pounding at his door and brandishing an electric razor, demanding Grantaire help him shave off the rest of his hair. They had been forced to wait until Grantaire had sobered up enough not to cut his throat, but the entire time leading up to it Bossuet had gushed about how he had seen the curls of black among his thinning hair.

It was only after he met Joly that the second tattoo was found. The one on the back of Joly’s hand matched Bossuet’s first words to him, but then there was another stamped across the med student’s calf. The two had been confused, scared by the fact that Joly seemed to have two soulmates while Bossuet only had Joly. What would happen? Would Joly have to choose? Could they accept another member who wasn’t compatible with Bossuet?

And then Joly – neurotic, lovable Joly – had demanded that Bossuet, who he was afraid was getting dehydrated in a summer heatwave, stick out his tongue. Being use to his soulmate and his anxieties, Bossuet had been happy to show just how pink and healthy his tongue was if it would calm Joly down. And that was when Joly had freaked out because _THERE IS SOMETHING BLACK ON THE BACK OF YOUR TONGUE!_  It was only after a dentist-style mirror had been procured that they realized it was words. Words that were identical to the ones on Joly’s calf. Words that would be spoken to both of them.

For all Bossuet may have gotten the two unluckiest places in the world to received soulmate tattoos, he was suddenly a man with one perfect, adorable soulmate who he fell more in love with daily and the promise of a second on the way. If Bossuet (and Joly, and Musichetta) weren’t such perfect people who were so willing to put up with Grantaire’s shit for so long, he could almost hate them for it.

(That was a lie. He could never hate any of them, they weren’t the ones that deserved it. He was the broken one. He was the one that didn’t have a soulmate.)

-

“Hey, kid, we’re here.”

Enjolras jerked awake, having dropped off into a light, fitful sort of catnap. The police station stood outside the window of the cab, looming in the morning sunlight like some great, judgemental beast. For some reason his mind jumped to Medusa and Athena; Enjolras thought that perhaps Grantaire might describe the building as a sphinx, crouched and waiting with its riddles and challenges, ready to judge the worthy and destroy those who weren’t. Or something.

“You going to be okay, kid?” the driver asked.

Enjolras realized what he must look like: battered and exhausted (and scared, so scared of what had happened, of what might happen, of what he was about to make happen).

“Yes, I’ll be fine. Thank you though.”

Carefully, trying to hide his limp, Enjolras got out of the taxi, paid his fee, and slowly made his way up to the station. Inside, he was shocked by the blast of air conditioning and the soft hum of industry. Walking up to the desk, he was greeted by a sergeant who smiled gently at him, probably already taking in his appearance and making assumptions. After making it clear that he wished to report an assault – he couldn’t stand to say any other word out-loud and even as it was the idea that calling it something as ugly and condemning as _an assault_ left a bitter taste in his mouth. The sergeant informed him that he would have to take a seat for the moment but that an officer would be ready to speak with him promptly. With no other options presenting themselves, Enjolras resigned himself to waiting and sat down. The chairs were padded but still excruciating, sending shots of pain up his body. Tugging at his hair, rifling around in his coat’s pockets, fiddling with his phone, Enjolras tried to keep himself busy, composed, because he could feel something sharp and dangerous lurking at the edge of his nerves, something that he suspected was panic. He had never had a panic attack, but he had seen Joly's, and he had no desire to experience it himself. He needed a distraction.

-

“What the fuck?”

“Mmm?” Calling Musichetta awake would be rather generous but she had emerged from the bedroom and was now sitting slumped in the kitchen, carefully picking bits of shell out of the plate of eggs that Bossuet had set in front of her.  She seemed willing enough to hear what had caused Grantaire to swear at such an unspeakably early hour though - or at least not articulate enough yet to get him to stop - and that was enough.

“Did someone get Enjolras, like, really fucking drunk last night or something?” Grantaire asked.

“Well, he was definitely getting tipsy,” Bossuet chuckled. “His face was glowing like a stop sign and he was getting pretty cuddly with Guillaume by the time they left.” Grantaire fought to keep his face under control. “Why?” Bossuet pressed.

“Because I'm wondering if he's still feeling the effects or some shit. He just  _texted_  me. Since when does Enjolras text me? And, all it says is: ‘Did the sphinx eat people?’ What's that even suppose to mean?”

-


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, sorry guys, I didn't mean to go so long without updating. But I'm officially done classes for the summer so hopefully I'll be able to keep to a quicker schedule.

The anxiety never died down, was still a very real, writhing mass in his stomach, but Enjolras had been pleasantly surprised to find that Grantaire was miraculous awake at such an early hour – perhaps he had never gone to sleep? – and since his phone had buzzed with Grantaire’s response (“?????”) he’d been trying to ignore the twisting in his guts by texting about mythical monsters. He had learnt that there was more sphinxes in the world, so to speak, than just the giant, crouching, Egyptian statue and that they could be found in multiple cultures. Apparently the Egyptian ones were actually the benevolent ones normally, and it was the Greek sphinxes that had a tendency to devour anyone unlucky enough to answer their riddle wrong.

“Mr Enjolras,” the sergeant’s voice called out, making Enjolras look up from his phone. “Inspector Javert will be free to speak with you in just a moment,” she told him, nodding to the large, open room past the front desk that was filled with various other desks, most unoccupied this early.

The inspector that the sergeant was indicating sat in one of these desks and was a severe looking man with grey sideburns and a beak-like nose. Up until now, he had been busy with an older woman, but she was now standing and shaking the inspector’s hand. The inspector’s face never looked anything less than serious, but Enjolras could see his mouth move and whatever he said must have had a profound effect on the woman because she clutched at his hand and looked like she was about to cry, an expression of emotionally exhausted relief filling her face. Finally she turned and left, and Enjolras, stowing his phone away even as it buzzed with a response from Grantaire, got up, winced against the sudden spike of pain, and limped past the front desk to the desk occupied by the inspector.

Unlike the welcoming, comforting smile of the desk sergeant, Inspector Javert simply gave Enjolras a curt nod and Enjolras, taking it more as an indication to sit down than a real greeting, perched gingerly on one of the chairs in front of his desk.

“Mr Enjolras,” the Inspector said, glancing at the cursory report that the desk sergeant had filled out, “it has been indicated that you would wish to file for assault charges.”

Enjolras tried not to shift as the officer’s hooded eyes turned on him; it felt disconcertingly like they bore straight through him, missing nothing, and mercilessly judging it all. Still, he tried to hold the woman’s face in his mind, how gratefully she had looked at the inspector despite his severe appearance, and Enjolras tried to take comfort from that.

“Yes.”

“If you would care to make a full report, we will see that this injustice is resolved to the fullest extent of the Law,” the man told him firmly. “Tell me all.”

It was time. To make a choice, the final decision, he would have to choose one path now or the other. Would he cast his soulmate aside so heartlessly? Could he really reject all the love he had been given, all the love that he felt, over a single disagreeable incident?

That thought though. The thought of it _not_ being a singular incident. Of it ever being repeated. The nauseating fear was nearly too much for him; he could never do this again. Never.

He loved Guillaume.

Guillaume loved him.

But this was wrong. He had refused. This was a crime. And he could not do it again.

“It. It was more,” Enjolras said, painfully aware that his voice was low and scratchy, nothing like the one that heralding his speeches and filled his convictions with fire. This was uncertainty, and that was foreign and unsettling. But he pressed on: “It was not simply a– an assault. I was… was…” Oh god. “S-sexually. I– He attacked me sexually.”

To Inspector Javert’s credit, neither his expression nor his tone changed and Enjolras found himself oddly grateful. He wasn’t sure he could have handled sympathy, not when he felt so much like a criminal himself by just sitting here.

“You wish to file on rape charges then,” said Javert evenly.

Enjolras squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip. _No. He didn’t. He didn’t want this to have happened at all._ His phone buzzed in his pocket, undoubtedly Grantaire wondering why he had disappeared so suddenly from their conversation. Slowly, Enjolras exhaled.

“Yes.”

“Continue.” The Inspector’s hand was poised over the report he was waiting for fill in. “Anything you can remember.”

“I… He, he has requested we…” What even was the terminology in this sort of situation? He felt stupid. Like some naïve schoolchild. “He has requested we have sex on multiple occasions in the past, but I have always made it very clear–” Was it clear? Maybe it _hadn’t_ been. When it came to his decisions he tended to be very vocal, but perhaps he had hedged a bit too much in this situation, scared of hurt Guillaume’s feelings. Perhaps he hadn’t been clear enough. “–W-well, I’d always rejected his advances. But, but this time he. He. He didn’t…” Enjolras curled in on himself, shuddering at the memories, hating the memory, hating what it was doing to him, why did he keep choking up, he was stronger than this. (Not strong enough, obviously, or he wouldn’t in this situation, or he wouldn’t have gotten so upset last night, would have been able to handle it.)

( _No, those were bad thoughts. He couldn’t waver, he needed his conviction if he was going to be able to do that. This was not his fault. It couldn’t be._ )

“So this is someone with whom you were acquainted,” Javert said. When Enjolras couldn’t bring himself to continue, couldn’t stand to confirm it all out-loud, to this stranger, this officer, the Inspector added, “It is quite common, in these situations, for the victim to have known his attacker prior. I understand that this may seem like a difficult situation for you, but this man must answer to the court for his actions so I must insist you give the name and the connection through which you know him.”

“Guillaume. Guillaume Goumanier. He… he’s my soulmate.”

Immediately, the atmosphere of the interview seemed to change. Swallowing thickly, Enjolras looked up to meet the Inspectors keen eyes, half-obscured by the now sharply angled brows, clear irritation written all over his harsh face. Enjolras didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what could make this better, painfully aware that Inspector Javert must see the same disgusting creature in Enjolras that he saw in himself – the sort of person that would turn their soulmate into the law indiscriminately. And yet he had hoped that this no-nonsense, seemingly unsentimental and professional man would… would…

“Did you know he was your soulmate at the time of the incident?” Javert asked harshly.

“…Yes.”

Javert raised a sardonic eyebrow and Enjolras had to look away, scowling down at the meticulously organized desk.

“And you refused him?”

Enjolras bit his lip, trying not to hear the accusation in his tone. “B-before. I always had before.”

“Before? And this time did you refuse him as well?”

He had answered wrong, Enjolras knew it. Perhaps in this situation there was no right answer. Regardless, he could feel the great jaws of the trap he had fallen into snap shut even before he spoke. “Not at first.”

“So this is not only an internal matter involving your soulmate, but one that you entered knowingly and consensually? Mr Enjolras, I believe we are finished here. The police aren’t for making slanderous claims to simply because you had a night of bad sex. I would advise you leave and return to this Mr Goumanier and sort your differences out like adults.

Mutely, Enjolras nodded and jerked away from the desk, nearly tripping to get away as quickly as possible.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ his brain yelled at him. How could he have thought that this would turn out any differently? What had he been thinking?

The sergeant at the desk bid him farewell but he didn’t look up, just continued to stumble out of the police building until he collapsed at the steps outside, legs unwilling to carry him any further.

But this wasn’t right! Surely… surely it couldn’t be. It had just hurt so much. It had been so terrifying.

His phone buzzed but he ignored that too, choosing instead to press his head against his knees and pull at his hair, still wild from the previous night and from sleeping on it wet. He pressed against the bruise accidentally, and sobbed to himself, bitter but dry.

Guillaume was his soulmate. They were together. They belonged together. Could you really refuse a part of yourself? Didn’t their relationship speak in place of Enjolras’ consent? Was there any way to negate it? He had hazy memories of discussing such things in long-gone law classes but he hadn’t paid them much heed at the time. Was it selfish of him to have been refusing Guillaume for so long? Probably. Probably, probably, probably, _he was a selfish person_. He didn’t think about other people he just ran headlong and foolhardy, driven by his own passions. Combeferre told him that often enough after all, didn’t he?

But no, he wasn’t a selfish person, surely. He wanted to help people. He did help people, it was what he was living his life for! But perhaps those two things weren’t mutually exclusive?

He didn’t know. He just didn’t know. God, he was an idiot.

He was an idiot for coming here at all.

All he had done was embarrass himself. If Guillaume knew…

If Guillaume knew.

Enjolras nearly threw up right where he sat, immediately transferring his hands from his head to his stomach, begging it to settle. No. Guillaume could not know about this. It would break his heart. ( _He would break Enjolras, he would make him sorry, he would correct and educate and it would hurt, no no please, Guillaume could never know about this._ )

What if Javert told him?

Enjolras had attempted to file a false police report after all, wasn’t that against the law? He gnawed on his lip, trying to remember what the protocol of this sort of situation was. He couldn’t remember though ( _idiot_ ), if only he could ask Bossuet – or heck, even Bahorel. But he couldn’t, he couldn’t tell anyone about this. But still, what if that meant Javert would call Guillaume and tell him what had happened, tell him what Enjolras had tried to accuse him of? Could he do that?

He needed to get home. To Guillaume’s apartment, that was. Hopefully he could still make it back before he woke up and found Enjolras gone. Would he be able to guess were Enjolras had been? What would happen when he stepped back into that apartment again? The realization that whatever happened it would hurt struck him with such conviction that he almost couldn’t bring himself to pull out his phone and call for another cab.

But call he did. And soon he was once again sitting in the back of the moving vehicle, just as conflicted and scared and tired and sore, but this time painfully aware that he wasn’t being whisked away to safety.


	13. Chapter 13

The silence of the early morning was fragile and seemed to be broken by the slightest thing, despite Enjolras’ best intentions. His footsteps seemed to echo down the deserted hallway, his breath was harsh, and his heart was pounded loud enough he felt sure it must be audible to from all the adjacent rooms. When he rummaged in his pockets for his keys, desperation and carelessness mounting when he couldn’t immediately feel them, he was sure that crashing of his change would have Guillaume down him in a second. It was only when he was beginning to thinking he may have to knock to be let in did he realize that he hadn’t taken his key at all; in his panic this morning he had only grabbed his wallet and phone. The door had been left unlocked and opened with a banshee wail of a squeak when he pressed against it. Entering, he nearly tripped over a discarded shoe, but still he desperately fought for silence and secrecy, still he attempted to slip in with the hopes of… of…

He stood dumbly in entryway, shoes still on, as he tried to figure out what he hoped to do. Maybe he could slip back into bed and Guillaume wouldn’t even realize he had gone. But what would happen if he was in that bed when Guillaume woke up? He swallowed to keep the spike of fear from overwhelming him. No, he couldn’t do that. Maybe he could curl up in a chair and do his homework? But no, he had come here straight from Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta’s apartment, he didn’t have any of his work. Besides, Guillaume seemed to be getting more and more cross lately when he found Enjolras ignoring him in favour of schoolwork. Maybe he could go make breakfast, that was something normal, domestic, and likely to put Guillaume in a good mood. Yes he could do that.

“There you are.”

Enjolras’ heart nearly stopped. His breathing certainly did.

Guillaume had stepped out of the kitchen in a dress shirt, holding a cup of coffee.

Guillaume was currently interning with an organization that worked to support global literacy. He had to be up early for it. How could Enjolras have forgotten this? They had celebrated Guillaume getting such a fantastic position only last month. There had been cake.

“Where were you?”

“I,” said Enjolras articulately. He exhaled, trying to pull himself together, to not let the guilt shine visibly on his face. He had never been a good liar though, he wasn’t the sort of person that felt the need to hide or excuse his actions. “I had to–” His phone buzzed again. “–to meet Grantaire for coffee.”

“Grantaire?” Guillaume demanded incredulously.

“He’s working on an essay for a class and thought I could help him edit. Normally he would ask Joly, I think, but he was having a hard time getting a hold of him and it sounds like the essay’s due soon. And it’s not like persuasive writing isn’t a forte of mine,” said Enjolras in a rush.

Though his expression was strangely thoughtful, Guillaume shrugged. “Fair enough. That’s Arts students for you, I guess. There’s a reason they don’t go to real school. You’re a good guy, ange.”

Enjolras found himself wanting to be affronted on Grantaire’s behalf. Because while Enjolras was often first in line to take a jab at the sketpic he also knew that he was taking a literature and history intensive workload on top of his art classes and that was by no means anything to sneeze at. It was different work from Enjolras’ poli-sci focus but he had also seen Grantaire dump out the mountain of books he had to read at one of their group study sessions. Grantaire was no idiot.

He wasn’t given an opportunity to voice any of these thoughts though, because Guillaume had come and engulfed Enjolras in a one-armed hug. “Still, I missed you this morning, ange,” he said, kissing Enjolras’ cheek. “I like waking up with the gorgeous guy I got to sleep with the night before. Wanted to make sure you were feeling okay, things got a little intense. So… how are you feeling? Not that bad I guess if you could go bounding off to some café first thing in the morning.”

_Talk to him!_  his mind screamed.

“Fine,” Enjolras said instead.

“Yeah? You got a little wild, I was afraid you hurt yourself. I mean, it’s normal for it to hurt a bit but still, gotta make sure my man’s okay, right?” He gave Enjolras an indulgent smile.

Enjolras tried to smile back. “I’m fine.”

“Great. Anyway, I’ve got to run. There’s coffee in the pot, should still be hot, and I made fresh orange juice – it’s in the fridge – if you want any. See you soon, ange.”

“Have a good day,” Enjolras replied, returning Guillaume’s kiss and standing back to watch his soulmate bustle out the door.

Feeling dazed, Enjolras walked into the kitchen and found himself staring blankly at the half-filled coffee pot. There was really too much for one person in there but Guillaume knew the unholy amount of coffee that Enjolras tended to drink in the morning and always made sure to put on extra. He was sweet like that.

Struck by how  _normal_  everything was, Enjolras shuffled over to the cabinet to find a mug. (The one he would normally choose wasn’t here. That one was at his apartment, sitting in the back of his and Courfeyrac’s cupboard in pieces. Enjolras had broken it. “ _Don’t bother. It’s ruined now._ ”) With more force than strictly necessary, Enjolras pulled out a random mug, slammed it onto the counter, and filled it with coffee until it threatened to spill over.  This one wasn’t broken so there was no point thinking about the other one.  It had been a stupid mistake and it was over now.

He eyed the kitchen table, where he normally sat in the mornings to drink his coffee and do his homework, but the sight of the wooden chairs was enough to make his body throb. So instead he limped over to the couch and sank into it, shifting until he had found a position that didn’t put any more pressure on the painful bits of his body than necessary. His laptop was at home, but Guillaume’s was wedged under a pillow at the other end of the couch, so Enjolras pulled it out and booted it up. At first he thought of going to the school website and doing some of the work that was posted online but almost without thinking he opened an incognito window instead.

(“ _Don’t bother. It’s ruined now._ ”)

His fingers hesitated for a moment over the keyboard.  And then, slowly and deliberately he typed _soulmate rape_ into the search bar.

Almost all of the results were on how the soulmates dealt with a traumatic attack happening to one of the pair together, or how it strained their relationship, or support groups for people who had been raped or for people whose soulmate had been raped. None of it was helpful (though a small voice at the back of his head that sounded disconcertingly like Combeferre was telling him that the support group page would be a good one to open. He ignored it; he had research to do.)

_“soulmate rape”_  wasn’t much more helpful. Nor was  _“raped by soulmate”_  or  _can a soulmate rape a soulmate?_  When he typed in _soulmate assault_  he got a few more results, but it was almost exclusively about physical abuse, nothing sexual, and most of the articles were informal – discussion boards or gossip rags or blog entries. The few scant articles he could find that came from more reliable sources mostly seemed to write it off as “natural emotional turmoil” and a “lack of open communication”, as miscommunication or confusions or mental illness or how the supposed victim was often as much in the wrong as the alleged abuser. “Supposed” and “alleged” were used a lot. Enjolras spent hours on the computer but as far as the internet was concerned everything that had happened was all in Enjolras’ head.

And maybe it was. Guillaume kept telling him it was supposed to hurt the first time. It’s not like Guillaume had kept it a secret or tried to make it worse – he had been preparing him, hadn’t he? He had used lubricant, and gone a finger a time, and spoke to him throughout. Most of the articles he found detailing rape didn’t allow for that much; they had been fast and cruel and intent on hurting. And the victims didn’t initially say yes.

Enjolras pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. He just didn’t know anymore. His response had been a no for so longer before it was ever a yes, didn’t that count for anything? And it had quickly and loudly become a no soon after. But maybe it was cruel of him to expect Guillaume to just stop in the middle when he had already said he could? Was it cruel to say no at all? Could you say no to your soulmate?

_“soulmate accused of rape”_  he typed in and skimmed the links that called up, desperately searching for any sort of validation, anyone to tell him that what he was feeling was right, or even normal.

There was one he completely overlooked at first, recognizing the site it was from and figuring it would just be sensationalist news article until a connection sparked and an old memory was dredged up from the back of his mind. With shaky hands he scrolled back up and opened the link in a new tab.

Enjolras stared at the headline, not sure what to feel. He knew this article. Vaguely, that is, and perhaps that’s what made it all the more unsettling; he probably never would have thought of it again in his life if it wasn’t sitting before him right now. It had first been brought to his attention several years ago, and even at the time he hadn’t given it much more than passing interest.

-

“Define rape.”

Enjolras raised his head from where he and Bahorel had been hunched over a law textbook. They were taking a 100-level class together and it was pretty clear that neither of them thought much of it. Enjolras found it tolerably interesting, but had soon come to the conclusion that he was more interested in the political, somewhere he could have more influence. Most of what he had learnt so far was that law made you a slave to archaic rules and senseless loopholes – he wanted to change these unjust laws not break his back trying to bend to them. Bahorel also apparently hated it since it was only through dint of serious effort that Enjolras had managed to drag him to even half the classes they were supposed to sit.

“We’re not covering that this unit,” Bahorel grunted. “Quiz me on something useful. Like all this fucking Latin. Why use a language nobody even speak? It’s pretentious, that’s what it is.”

“I’m not talking about your test,” said Feuilly, who had posed the original request. “I mean, for this article I’m reading.” He shook the newspaper in his hands as emphasis.

Next to Enjolras, Combeferre sat up a little, tucked the red pen he was holding behind his ear, and started rifling through the massive dictionary he had open in front of him. “It depends on the context; I assume you’re talking about a sexual one?”

“Yeah,” Feuilly agreed.

“Rape, verb. Take by force; ravish, force, violate. Carrying off by force; ravishing or violation (of an unbound individual).”

“That seems like a pretty narrow-minded definition,” Courfeyrac said. “It’s pretty much assuming that you have to be having sex with your soulmate for it be anything other than rape. It’s not like every single person who runs around having sex with other people is a rapist, not if both people want it. Who even thinks like that anymore?”

Combeferre raised a pointed eyebrow at him and Courfeyrac groaned, “Don’t, I’ve heard enough of it yesterday evening.

Jehan, who didn’t seem particularly interested in the conversation but even less interested in the “whiny love poets” he was being forced to study, leaned over Combeferre’s shoulder to peek at the dictionary he was reading from. “Why are the pages covered in red ink?”

“Please don’t,” Courfeyrac begged.

“I have been reading through the dictionary and making corrections were it seemed necessary,” said Combeferre, glaring at Courfeyrac. “For reasons exactly like this. If we went by this definition, Courfeyrac would be both a victim and an attacker many times over. The colloquially accepted definition has altered, and rigid, formal works haven’t kept up.  It’s the old descriptive versus prescriptive issue. I doubt any law text written in our lifetime would dare suggest you should try two people involved in consensual, casual sex. It’s beginning to be more socially accepted that just because some people think sleeping with a person other than your soulmate is unappealing doesn’t mean they can impose those restrictions on everyone, not if no one is being hurt by it. For that matter, you should see the definition of sex in this volume, it’s cringe worthy.”

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, alright. Besides for that being  _unspeakably nerdy, like holy shit_ , you haven’t just been 'making corrections’. You have been bitching. You’ve been sitting around mine and Enjolras’ apartment  _bitching to us_ _about errors in the dictionary_ _._ Who else has to deal with that sort of nonsense? Literally only us.”

“Why do you need a definition of rape, Feuilly?” Enjolras cut in before the discussion could escalate.

By way of explanation, Feuilly spread his newspaper over the table and pointed to the article he was reading. “It’s about a woman pushing for legal action against her soulmate on rape charges,” he said.

This was met by shock.

“What, really?” Courfeyrac asked, leaning forward in an attempt to read the article upside down.

“How?” Bahorel asked. “How does that even work. Is that a thing? If I had my soulmate you wouldn’t be able to pry me out of bed with a–”

“Yes, alright,” Combeferre cut in. “What does the article have to say?”

Feuilly shrugged. “It sounds like she’s not mentally well,” he said. “Hysterical, possibly delusional.”

“I’ve heard of times when people will try to make unfounded claims like that in order to attack their soulmate in some way,” Jehan said. “It’s all very morbid. There will be some horrible secret that is killing their relationship, pulling it apart at its very seams, and then one will make such a claim in an attempt to destroy their soulmate and, by extension, themselves, as a sort of torrid punishment – they often commit suicide after, poor souls.”

Enjolras eyeballed Jehan who suddenly seemed entirely too interested in the whole affair. He wondered if he’d actually heard of any such incidents outside his darker poetry; it sounded more like something he would have found in one of his musty volumes of Agrippa than from an actual, reliable news source.

Bahorel was actually flipping through the law text in front of him. “Look, I’m pretty sure you can’t rape your soulmate, right?” he said, scowling. “Like, it has to do with that whole 'cum-idiot’ thing.”

“ _Comidio_ ,” Enjolras said. “That’s the legal word for the concept that soulmates are two parts of a single unit. That’s why things like property possession can get really legally grey if soulmates choose not to live together, since the claim can be made that, legally, after soulmates find each other both are joint possessors of all property.”

“Fucking legal bullshit,” Bahorel agreed cheerfully. “Anyways, right, so you can’t actually rape your soulmate because consent is inherent in the union,  _id est comidio_ , blah blah blah. I mean, fuck me, there’s probably some  _'precedent’_  that renders the entire fucking thing null and void because nothing’s actually supposed to make sense in this shit but there you go.”

“I don’t understand how you could even make these sorts of accusations though,” Enjolras said, chewing on his lip thoughtfully. “The entire nature of soulmates is unity among people, a singular made of multiples. It’s one of the surest signs that humans not only can but should work together as a cohesive collective. Surely if you’re with your soulmate, the person who is an extension of yourself, the one person you are naturally inclined to love and protect, something like… that… wouldn’t be an issue. And so if there is then no actual grievance to report, why would you try to sabotage your soulmate? Both possibilities seem crazy – to betray that sort of fellowship…”

“Like I said, it does say that she might not have been mentally stable,” Feuilly said.

“You know, it’s possible to wind up with someone you believe is your soulmate without it actually being the case,” said Combeferre. “In a situation like that the theory of natural harmony is negated entirely.” At the expressions this statement garnered he explained: “If both you and the other person have fairly generic words it’s not impossible for mistakes to be made.  'Hello’ and 'Hi’, for example. I actually read a book recently about someone that happened to.  It talked about everything that happened between her and her supposed soulmate while they tried to make the relationship work, and then the legal, social, and moral trouble that came about when the mistake was realized and she tried to break it off. Some of it was quite horrific. I’ll lend it to you later, if you like,” he added to Feuilly, who looked intrigued.

With a concerned expression, Courfeyrac rubbed at his upper arm. “Okay, from now on it doesn’t matter what happens, when I meet someone new I’m saying something fucking absurd. One of us at least needs to have a recognizable tattoo.”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine, Courfeyrac. It can’t be common or we would have heard about it,” Enjolras said.

“You can’t talk,” Courfeyrac huffed. “Yours is 'Hey, stop, you’re my soulmate!’ – you’re not going to have to do anything because you know your soulmate’s gonna find you.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes at his friend’s dramatics, but touched his wrist gently, finger stroking a familiar path across his pulse point. “Does it say what this woman’s tattoo was?” Enjolras asked Feuilly, who shook his head no.

“It’s all very sad, that she would do something like this,” Jehan said. “If she is sick, I hope she gets help.”

There was a collective murmuring and then the topic was dropped, and would remain so until it was found again by Enjolras several years later.

-

Now, Enjolras stared dumbly at the article. It did make her sound crazy. Possibly dangerous. There was no doubt who the villain was meant to be in this story. Of course, the story hadn’t changed in the years since his first reading of it, and he was amazed that only now he was being struck by the intense bias with which it was written. It was a story about a woman claiming to be attacked and instead of exploring her claim it attacked her in turn.

“He made me feel like I had to,” the article quoted. It then went on to make a quip about women and “headaches” and the misfortunes of having a partner who dodged bedtime duties.

_Duties_ , like it was a chore to be completed. Like you were a soldier in a war who had no choice but to perform as commanded.

The article talked about illnesses that could affect people by making their sex drive significantly decrease. It talked about a potential history of schizophrenia and paranoia in the family, the possibility of drug abuse, and the accuser’s believed history with prostitution. It talked  _a lot_  but besides for a couple quotes from the woman and one from her soulmate there seemed to be very little about the event itself. Probably the newspaper didn’t want to put in anything too risqué but it still felt like somehow in all of this... this _fluff_ , this meaningless story that was dodging the story, that the actual grievance had been shoved under a rug.

Enjolras wondered what happened to this woman, hating himself a little for not following the event up when it was actually happening, for disregarding it so readily. Before he could look up anymore though, he heard keys in the lock. He darted forward, grabbed a pen from the side table, scribbled the woman’s name on his arm, and then quickly shut off the computer and pulled down his sleeve.

“Hey, ange, you still here?” Guillaume’s voice called out over the rustle of outer wear being removed.

“Here,” called Enjolras, and a moment later Guillaume had entered the room and collapsed onto the couch, half on top of Enjolras, groaning.

“How was your day?” Enjolras asked automatically, though he kept his hands firmly at his sides, not carding them through Guillaume’s hair or stroking his back as he might have otherwise.

“Long. Don’t get me wrong, it was awesome, like talk about a dream job, but so  _long_. How was yours? No class today, right?”

“Yeah, just did some… research.”

“Mmm.”

Enjolras took a deep breath. He wasn’t going to end up like that woman. “We need to talk.”

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That definition was more or less lifted from The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Current English (1919), since I figured this society has a pretty underdeveloped, old-fashion understanding of rape; I obviously edited the wording somewhat but that mostly just extended to replacing the word “woman” with “unbound individual”.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major tw for rape again, guys. If you want more details about it before committing, see the end notes.

Guillaume must have heard something in his voice because he straightened a little. Enjolras met his inquisitive gaze and felt like his soulmate was trying to stare right through him and divine what had made Enjolras use the tone he had. It upset Enjolras that that could even be a question.

“About last night,” he continued, his voice staying firm. In control. He could stay in control, he could command a room, he could do this. Guillaume wasn’t some temperamental mob with internalized oppressive tendencies; he loved him.

So Enjolras convinced himself that it was concern, not anger, that darkened Guillaume’s face.

“Are you still on that? I thought we talked this morning,” said Guillaume.

“I… was not as fine as I might have suggested.”

“You lied to me?”

“No!” Enjolras exclaimed, aghast. “I just… I was–” Scared. “–overwhelmed.” He took a deep breath. _Control. Love. Connection and unity through a biological bond_ – it was all a misunderstanding and he was an adult who could fix this. “Guillaume, I didn’t… enjoy it. Sex, that is, I didn’t enjoy… sex.”

Guillaume gave a sharp, sardonic laugh that made Enjolras cringe internally. “Wow, aren’t we demanding all of a sudden. I’m sorry if the first time wasn't  _perfect_  for you, Enjolras. Some of us are human, if you can believe that – do you expect me to read your mind the first time around?”

“I’m not _blaming_ you! I’m not angry!”

“I should hope not! Jesus Christ…”

“And I don’t expect you to read my mind, that’s why I wanted to talk to you! Guillaume… I didn’t… I couldn’t do it. I tried, I really did try but it was just… it was too much.” It was a completely insufficient way to describe what had happened. But there weren’t enough words in the world to describe the deep seated _wrongness_ that accompanied the fear and pain.

Moving close enough so that their thighs were flush, Guillaume reached out and placed a heavy hand on Enjolras’ cheek, manipulating his head gently so that they were eye to eye. “Ange,” he said, soft, kind, reverent, “how many times do I have to tell you? The first time can be a bit much. It gets better. You don’t need to be so silly and serious about it.”

A part of Enjolras wanted to cling to that and drop this entire, awful, humiliating topic, but he held onto his resolve and continued. “It’s not just that, Gui. It was… more than that. I don’t… I don’t feel that way. About anyone. It’s not just you, it’s… I’ve never…”

But he didn’t know how to say it. He wanted nothing more than a simple, concise word that could explain what he was experiencing but there wasn’t one. Everyone else he knew seemed to feel a certain inclination towards others, even without their soulmates. Courfeyrac acted on his attraction freely and happily, taking partners of any gender and seeming to enjoy himself immensely; even Bahorel and Grantaire had stories of  _other people_  who had caught their eyes. Jehan, though he reverently waited for his soulmate, made it no secret that he found certain people appealing in a sort of innate way that Enjolras couldn’t understand; Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta, all soulmates united, had a very enthusiastic sex life from the sounds of it, and even Feuilly had given indication that he occasionally chafed against desires that he had no one to help him fill. Not all his friends had interest in the same shape, style, or gender of person, but they all felt that interest in some form or another. But Enjolras never noticed attractiveness, never felt a physical desire for anyone, and was occasionally taken aback when it turned out that someone else felt it towards him. But he had no way to explain this.

“There’s a desire,” he tried anyway, “that I understand people feel, an attraction, but it doesn't... I don't... I’ve never wanted sex, Gui, and as it turns out I really, _really_ don’t enjoy it. I wish I could explain it better but I just… I don’t like it Guillaume. Please,” he whispered, “ _please_ understand. I don’t like it. I didn’t like it.”

It was only Guillaume’s hand directing his face that kept Enjolras from looking away and ensured that he saw a wave of emotions storm across Guillaume’s face.

“You  _didn’t enjoy it?_ ” his soulmate demanded, clearly offended. For a moment Enjolras thought the hand on his cheek would be drawn back and that he would be slapped. Instead, Guillaume simply took a deep breath and regained himself. “Fine. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, you're so self-centred sometimes. But I love you,” Guillaume continued before Enjolras could protest, “so I’ll spoil you this time. Show you how good it can be.”

And then Guillaume had pushed himself off the couch and with a careless hand shoved Enjolras firmly back down when he tried to stand.

“Guillaume, no–” Enjolras started, but his soulmate had dropped to his knees and had positioned himself between Enjolras’ legs.

With a laugh that struck Enjolras to his core, Guillaume just patted Enjolras' knee. “Trust me, ange.” 

Enjolras wanted to, he really, truly did, but... but he couldn't.   _He couldn't_.  But Guillaume grabbed his leg when his tried to stand on the couch and pulled harshly, dragging Enjolras back down, warning him to stay still. When Enjolras didn’t (he couldn’t, not again, how did this happen, he had  _explained_ ) Guillaume grabbed his crotch harshly enough for Enjolras to cry out and collapse back onto the pillows once again, shuddering and trying to curl in on himself.

“Stay,” Guillaume growled, as he forced Enjolras to uncurl, “the fuck,” and now he was forcing the button of his jeans free, “still.” 

Enjolras’ pants and underwear were dragged down to his ankles and Enjolras, feeling dazed, watched with a horror that kept him from turning away as Guillaume bent towards his bared penis. It was as limp as it had been last night. But where before Guillaume’s erection had demanded all attention in the room, today’s focus had been turned to Enjolras and the feeling that came with the attention was nauseating. He didn’t want it. When Guillaume’s fingers caressed his balls, when he bent his head and dragged a strip of wet along the flaccid length with his tongue, Enjolras lurched forward and grabbed a tight hold of the fabric of Guillaume’s shirt, clinging as if that could ground him.

“Don’t,” he begged, tears in his eyes.

“Mm, responsive,” Guillaume teased, as if Enjolras was meant to be _enjoying_ such a disgusting, slimy, _wrong_ feeling. “Didn’t I tell you this would be good?  And you don’t even have to do anything this time.”

Enjolras tried to pull away only once more, when Guillaume took him entirely in his mouth and  _sucked_ , but he was punished with a scape of teeth along the sensitive skin and after that he resigned himself.

Somehow, it was worse than last night. Last night there had been horror and disgust, certainly, but everything had narrowed to focus on the physical pain. It had been an attack. But now, when Enjolras wasn’t fighting, it didn’t hurt, not beyond the shots of day-old pain from his ass that came each time he jerked too suddenly or was pressed too solidly against the couch. Even without the pain though he fought the urge to vomit the entire time Guillaume’s tongue manipulated his prick until, after a frustratingly long time, it finally began to respond to the ministration. This at least made Guillaume hum in satisfaction, made him mutter a smug “told you”, but it was nearly too much for Enjolras. The idea that he could respond positively to this, that his body could enjoy this, was sickening. The idea that this wasn’t against his will, that he did want this after all, that he had been wrong and everyone else had been right, was unacceptable... but he couldn’t deny the way his dick stiffened or the darts of desire that shot through him like an electric shock.

 _Just let it end,_  he begged silently as he, to his horror and Guillaume’s pleasure, moaned.  _Just let it end._  Let it all end.

And finally it did. With a stuttering jerk, his hips spasmed and his gut wrenched and he released with a relieved sob. Guillaume spluttered indignantly, spitting and wiping the white semen from his face, but at least he was no longer touching him. 

“Give a guy some warning next time,” Guillaume said, and Enjolras would have sobbed if he had the energy to because _a next time_?  He couldn’t do this “a next time”. He would rather have Guillaume tearing him apart from the inside out again than repeat the moist, humiliating ordeal he had just suffered.

“Anyways,” Guillaume said, patting Enjolras’ thigh, “see what I mean? Told you that you were into it. Your cock was practically begging for me.” Enjolras turned his head away, ashamed. “So stop being an ass about all this, okay?”

_Leave, just leave me alone._

“…Well? I’m all about afterglow, but are you gonna do me or what?”

Enjolras’ world stopped. Because no, it was over. He had persevered and survived once again. But it was over now. Guillaume’s words made no sense, and the expression he turned towards his soulmate must have told Guillaume as much.

“Jeez, so selfish. You gonna finish me off, or what? I keep telling you, this isn’t only about you, Enjolras.” He gestured meaningfully to his crotch. His pants had been unzipped at some point, and his erection pressed demandingly against the confines of his boxers.

Numbly, after some prompting, Enjolras found himself on the floor next to the pants and under he, and now Guillaume, had discarded. Guillaume’s erection, veined and red, was just as threatening as it had been last night. He didn’t know what to do to make it go away. His ass throbbed and old bruises ached and he shuddered at the memories. He was pretty sure he was crying, because he was having a hard time focussing on the erection in front of him, but then again he was also pretty sure he had been crying on and off constantly today.

Nudging Enjolras with his foot, Guillaume urged him to go on. “Don’t worry about not being great this time around,” he added magnanimously, “it can take a bit to get good at. Just lick it.”

As if it were easy. It took a couple aborted attempts, of bobbing his head towards and then away like some sort of frightened bird, before he finally opened his mouth, as if in a silent prayer, stuck his tongue out, and pressed it to Guillaume’s flesh.

His treacherous stomach finally succeeded at what it had been threatening. Enjolras threw up.

He hadn’t even finished gagging when Guillaume’s foot caught his face and sent him spiralling to the ground, half collapsing in the sick. The dizziness that followed it didn’t help and he continued to heave and gag, only managing to couch up a few more thin ribbons of bile – his anxiety had kept him from eating much today.

“Fucking disgusting,” he heard Guillaume snarl from some fuzzy distance above him.

Then two hands had grabbed hold of his shirt and hauled him half to his feet, only to toss him back to the ground. Enjolras sobbed, trying to make sense of what was happening.

“Do you think you’re too good for me? Too good to suck my dick?” Guillaume roared at him.

“No, no, no, I’m sorry.”

“Then what the  _fuck_  was that?”

“I’m sorry!” Enjolras cried from his spot at Guillaume’s feet. “It was an accident!”

“So you think you can go sobbing about 'not wanting it’ like you didn’t say yes like a little whore last night, only to come all over my face and then _fucking refuse_ to suck my dick? You fucking tease! Do you really not love me at all? Am I some sort of game to you? W hat, am I just supposed to go around with a fucking hard-on, Enjolras? Were you just going to leave me like this?” 

As he spoke his hand was clasped around his still erect dick, pumping it up and down. It continued, hand rising and falling in time with the furious timber of his voice as he yelled, with Enjolras ragged breath, until finally he came, hot streams of semen splattering against Enjolras hunched back. Erection finally dealt with, Guillaume seemed to calm somewhat as pulled on his discarded pants and tucked his penis away. For a moment he simply stood, staring down at Enjolras, as if in scorn, or disgust. And fair enough: covered in sweat and tears and semen and vomit, Enjolras probably did look disgusting. He felt disgusting.

“Whatever, Enjolras. Fuck. I love you but I don’t know how I put up with your shit sometimes. Clean this up; I’m going out.”

Enjolras stayed curled on the ground, trembling, as he listened to Guillaume stomp off. Only after the apartment door had slammed shut did Enjolras allow himself the freedom to shuffle away from the mess. The smell of vomit was rancid and coupled with the acidic taste in his mouth it was almost enough to drive him to do as he was told, but for a moment, this one moment, he was just trying to keep himself from breaking apart. 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rape in this chapter isn't penetrative, but is still very descriptive and involves Guillaume blowing Enjolras and trying to force him to do so in return, but Enjolras isn't able to go through with it and ultimately throws up. Physical and verbal abuse accompanies the rape again.


	15. Chapter 15

The shower was wonderful, and Enjolras stayed in it until the water ran cold. Even then, he only got out once goosebumps had raised painfully on his skin and he was shivering convulsively. He put on clean clothes and, after some consideration, shoved the shirt, jeans, and underwear from early into a plastic bag that he would throw away at his earliest convenience – he didn’t know if semen stained, but he knew that the shirt, with the drying stripes of Guillaume’s spend across it, would never be clean again. After that, Enjolras discovered that Guillaume didn’t own a mop and instead settled for getting a rag and a bucket of water so that he could scrub the floor free of any evidence of what had happened here. When five, ten, fifteen minutes of scrubbing still didn’t seem like enough, he got up and found bleach to add to the water, and continued to scrub until his hands began to tingle painfully from the chlorine solution.

Finally deeming the room and himself clean enough for Guillaume, sat back and surveyed his work.  The smell of bleach was almost overpowering and it was making his head ache, a pulse that throbbed in harmony with the spot Guillaume had kicked earlier.  He couldn’t stay here, not with it smell so strong – he would come back after it had aired out, he told himself, but right now ever nerve in his body was screaming to _leave_.  So with legs stiff from kneeling as he cleaned Enjolras stumbled up and hastened to pack the few things of his from around the apartment that he would need – his wallet, his phone, his keys – and practically ran out the door so that he could be gone before Guillaume returned from wherever he had gone. Once he was safely on a bus heading back to his and Courfeyrac’s apartment he sent a text to Guillaume telling him that he was going to spend the night at home. He made sure to add the fact that he didn’t actually have any of his school stuff at the apartment, so that it wouldn’t seem like he was leaving because of… because of what had happened.

Even though it was.

And a part of Enjolras felt he should hold Guillaume responsible for that. But not a big enough part that he wanted to risk it.

Being on his phone again for the first time since that morning made him notice the little icon that informed him he had unread text messages. Opening them he found that they were from Grantaire, from early that day. At first they were continuations of the conversation that they had been having, but it soon became clear that Grantaire had realized that he’d been deserted.

_From: Grantaire_ _  
you still there?_

_From: Grantaire_ _  
helloooo?_

_From: Grantaire_ _  
are you so ashamed that_  
 _you can’t figure out the_  
 _sphinx’s riddle that you’ve_  
 _gone into some sort of self-_  
 _inflicted exile?_

_From: Grantaire_ _  
because you should be._  
 _everyone knows the fucking_  
 _sphinx’s riddle. everyone._

_From: Grantaire_ _  
sorry you’re probably busy_  
 _i’m probably being really_  
 _annoying_

_From: Grantaire_ _  
sorry_

Enjolras felt his stomach curl with guilt, which was getting to be an uncomfortably familiar sensation. He felt bad about having left Grantaire in the middle of a conversation, especially one that seemed to have him so unusually enthusiastic; Enjolras would have broached the topic sooner (for all he couldn’t tell a minotaur from a… well, from some other Greek monster. Were harpies Greek?) if he had known that Grantaire would get so excited about it.

Well, he probably would have at least. Maybe. Then again, he hadn’t always cared that much about getting Grantaire to talk  _more_  so maybe he wouldn’t have.

Still, what could he say now? He could hardly tell Grantaire that he hadn’t been able to answer because he had gone to get laughed at by the police for not liking sex and had then spent the rest of the day wallowing in self-pity.

_To: Grantaire_ _  
Sorry, I got busy_

It was a completely inadequate explanation, and he was painfully aware of it while he waited for a response, which didn’t end up coming until after Enjolras made it home. 

Leaving the bus, he actually waited for the elevator instead of taking the stairs, not sure his body could handle that sort of exertion, and nearly collapsed onto the couch once he had made it inside. He couldn’t stay out there though – he was sure his face was bruising badly and from the sounds of it Courfeyrac was actually home instead of at Marius’. Their voices burbled through the walls, filling the apartment with a sense of life that it was missing sometimes now that both he and Courfeyrac spent so much time with their soulmates. It should have made the place feel warm, inviting, but instead Enjolras found himself standing in the hall, staring at the closed door to Courfeyrac’s room and feeling painfully apart. He wanted comfort, he wanted someone to hold him gently and force everything to make sense, he wanted Courfeyrac. But Courfeyrac was with his soulmate and Courfeyrac was happy, so Enjolras quietly slipped into his own room so that he could hide his face, hide himself, hide the disaster that his life was quickly becoming, and hide the fact that he didn’t know how to fix it even though he  _had_ _to fix it_ _._

After he had stripped down and took a moment to marvel at the patches of blue and purple that was blossoming over his skin, he pulled on a pair of boxers – nothing else, he wanted to have as little pressing against his sore skin as possible right now – and collapsed into bed.  Sleep didn’t come, but the text did.

_From: Grantaire_ _  
doesn’t matter wasn't_  
 _important_

And that was it. One of the few civil conversations that Enjolras had ever had with Grantaire was over and he felt a strange sense of loss.


	16. Chapter 16

On Sunday, Enjolras didn’t leave his room.

His sleep had been fitful at best, hard won when it came, and quick to leave him. Shifting the wrong way could trigger shooting pains from his rear or a pervasive throbbing from his cheek when it was pressed against the pillow, and foggy, indistinct dreams woke him covered in sweat and with a pounding heart, and both ensured that his sleep was broken and stressful. He was awake at nine, after dozing for a couple hours prior, and heard Marius wake up and leave Courfeyrac’s room. Enjolras couldn’t fall back to sleep after that, but he lay in bed and dimly listened to Marius move around the kitchen, probably trying to find breakfast. For a moment, Enjolras felt resentful of Marius Pontmercy, because he never seemed scared or upset or hurt while he was with his soulmate, because he was occupying all of Courfeyrac’s time, because he was in Enjolras’ kitchen when Enjolras had to hide in his bedroom. But the ridiculous resentment died almost immediately. For all Marius was a bit of a dolt without two competent political ideas to rub together, he was sweet and Courfeyrac adored him. Enjolras was happy for both of them.

The wake of resentment left a hollow in Enjolras gut though. So he tried not to think or feel and just listened as Courfeyrac woke up and greeted Marius. He listened to them eat breakfast and get ready for their day, and finally he listened to them leave together. They were probably holding hands, or maybe Courfeyrac had slung an arm around Marius’ neck, or stuck a hand into one of Marius’ pockets – something sickeningly sweet that left them both grinning like idiots. His imagination continued to run in exhausting, frustrating circles and time passed slowly.

It was almost eleven.

When sleep continued to evade him Enjolras finally accepted defeat and dragged himself out of bed by noon. Surely it should be impossible, but he hurt even more today. He was up only long enough to perform necessities. He shuffled into the bathroom and for a moment simply stood in front of the bathroom mirror and examined himself. His left temple was red and purple, from where it had hit the floor during the first… encounter. The right side of his face was even more horrific, deep blues and blacks around his jaw where Guillaume’s foot had caught him. The rest of the bruises weren’t as stark, only the occasionally, faint hand print pressed into his shoulders and arms and hips. It was a disgusting sight and Enjolras left as soon as he could drag his eyes away.

Though he wanted to return directly to his room and hide his wrecked body away from sight, he went first to the deserted kitchen. It still showed signs of the happy domestic life that had filled it a few hours earlier, making Enjolras feel like he shouldn’t be touching anything. As quickly as he could he grabbed a stale muffin and a banana from the counter and, feeling satisfied with his initiative, limped back to his room, shutting the door behind him and collapsing back into bed.

Over the course of the day, he tried to read, study, play a game of sudoku on his phone, and watch a show on his laptop that Feuilly had recommended him, but he found he couldn’t do much of anything without his mind inevitably wandering. He nibbled at his muffin but threw the banana across the room with a gut-wrenching cry when he touched the long, curved shape to his lips (and then screamed at himself for how stupid it was, for how stupid it was to work himself into a panic over a piece of  _fruit_ ).  He accomplished nothing. Instead he stayed curled in his bed, trying to turn his brain off, and occasionally sending out a text message to stave off questions about his location and whether he would like to hang out. Guillaume was his biggest concern, but he seemed satisfied enough when Enjolras claimed to be on campus doing work for a project. It seemed wrong that the rest of the world was carrying on without him but he couldn’t stand the thought of joining it. He couldn’t imagine ever being a part of it again; somehow everything had shifted and he was too wrong, too different now.

He had meant to get up on Monday. Sunday had been an anomaly, and in any case he had always promised himself that The Cause would have to come before any other sort of engagement, romantic ones included, and that meant attending class was important. But by four am, when he had drifted into his first, deep sleep in a couple nights, he had known that that wouldn’t happen. At eight thirty, still exhausted and startled by the colours that had taken over his face, nothing could have moved him from his bed. So he stayed. He finished off the muffin and, when he was sure the apartment was empty, made his way to the kitchen for some more food, his stomach apparently just realizing it hadn’t been fed much of anything in the past twenty-four hours.

While he was out there, his phone pinged.

Feeling particularly brave he took it and sat in the living room instead of disappearing back into his room. There was a couple of texts from earlier in the day, from friends in the morning class that he had missed spectacularly asking after him, and the most recent one was from Guillaume.

He could feel sweat prickle anxiously across his skin as he opened the message with shaky hands.

 _From: Gui_  
_Hey ange I thought you were_  
 _going to text me when you_  
 _finished your project last night?_

Had Enjolras promised that? He was sure he hadn’t. Nothing would have made him agree to leave his room yesterday especially not to see Guillaume, even if he knew that avoiding him risked making it worse. But why would Guillaume lie about something like this? Did Enjolras just forget? Was Guillaume angry?

The text notification went off again.

 _From: Gui_  
_Anyways it’s ok I forgive you :P_  
 _How about we do dinner_  
 _tonight when you’re off class?_  
 _My treat ;)_

Enjolras was so relieved that he accepted immediately, apologized for forgetting to text, and got a reply that included an address to a restaurant in return. It was the added line “dress nice” in the text that gave him pause when he realized a logistical issue: his face still looked like a horror movie.

For a while he paced in agitation, tugging at his skin and hair as he tried to  _think_. How did you get rid of bruises? Bahorel and Grantaire were often bruised from their various activities and their marks hung around for days – weeks! – sometimes. Though they also wore them like trophies won. Enjolras’ didn’t look like trophies, they looked like flowers that had been trampled, like something sad and small that had gotten broken. He needed them gone.

Googling  _how to get rid of bruises_  on his phone didn’t help much either. Most of the remedies he found were meant to be done as soon as possible after getting the bruises to stop them from spreading in the first place, and some of his bruises were a couple days old by now and enormous. Even then the “remedies” didn’t stop the bruises from taking days to fade. He was beginning to properly panic when the obvious answer flashed up on his screen: a make-up tutorial.

Now, while neither he nor Courfeyrac wore make-up routinely, Courfeyrac was often involved in the school’s theatre productions and Enjolras knew that he had a bag of the stuff stashed somewhere. He felt bad about going through his roommate’s stuff without his permission, but a text asking to borrow Courf’s make-up was out of the question. In the end he found it carelessly shoved into a cardboard box in Courfeyrac’s closet along with other theatre paraphernalia that had been collected over the years.

Putting on make-up, he soon found, was not as easy as people like Musichetta made it look. He had to figuring out what was concealer and what was foundation, how to apply each (because apparently they were different), not to mention find a shade that even vaguely matched his own skin colour as he and Courf had very different skin tones – Enjolras ultimately settled for the palest he could find.  Then even just touching the bruises repeatedly as he applied them, trying to make it blend convincingly had him gritting his teeth. By letting his hair out of its ponytail so that it hung around his face and covered the majority of his temple and putting on the massive scarf Jehan had gifted him a previous Christmas, he felt that he passed relatively well.

It was unsettling how easily something that earth-shaking could be disguised.

For all the frustration that putting on make-up and forcing his sore body into nice clothing had been, he was still ready with plenty of time, his date with Guillaume not until after his final class of the day which wouldn’t even start for a few hours. Mondays had him on campus all day, with a morning class, a few free hours after that which he normally spent in the library, followed by his second class, another couple hours’ break, and then his third class ending in the evening. A thought that had eluded him all morning struck him then: he normally spent that time between his second and third class with Combeferre in a campus coffee shop, since Combeferre finished his last class of the day right around then. Classroom acquaintances might be easy enough to brush off with a text, but Combeferre would definitely notice if he didn’t show up for coffee, and would undoubtedly realize that he hadn’t gone to any of his classes today. That was a thought that made anxiety flutter once again in his stomach. A Combeferre faced with a mystery was a formidable Combeferre indeed and Enjolras didn’t want his friend’s determined curiosity turned towards him. But – he checked the time – if he hurried and caught the next bus he could potentially still make it to campus in time for the coffee meet-up. It took a couple minutes for him to reach a decision (he just wanted to go back to bed, just wanted to curl up where it was soft and warm and safe) but ultimately decided that it would be easier to meet Combeferre than have him wondering what had caused Enjolras’ absence.

-

Combeferre didn’t think much of Enjolras being late. Combeferre’s class generally let out half an hour after Enjolras’ seminar, and Enjolras would often find a nook to work in until they were meant to meet, meaning that the precise time either of them ended up at the coffee shop varied from week to week.

At least, he didn’t think much of it until Enjolras actually got there.

“Hey, sorry, got busy with… notes.”

It should be stated that Enjolras had never been a good liar. Even as a child he had refused to back down on any thought or action he had committed to, never saw the point in pretending he hadn’t done something if it was something he thought was worth doing, and so while other children were learning to fib to their parents and friends and teachers Enjolras was learning how to charm his way by on the truth. The fact that Combeferre had known him over half his life didn’t help: he knew all of Enjolras tones and moods and idiosyncrasies. And so he knew that Enjolras was lying. But Combeferre had no idea why.

“Oh?” he said lightly as he steered both of them to the line-up. Because Combeferre, who had spent most of  _his_  childhood running around after Enjolras trying to keep him out of the worst trouble, was a very good liar. Or not so much liar, as subtle distorter of minor truths. He liked to call it tact, something Enjolras knew nothing about. “What subject were you working on? Was it a good sort of busy, or a bad sort?”

“The bad sort.”

Combeferre did not raise his eyebrows but he was surprised by the ease with which Enjolras answered. Normally he hesitated and bumbled his way through a lie and unravelled it himself soon enough, always over-thinking it to death. He had sounded very sincere in his answer. Combeferre wondered if he had misread something as he tried to analyse his friend’s face while he ordered.

“A prof said something very wrong again?”

Enjolras just hummed in agreement.

The next hour proceeded in a similar way. Whether or not Enjolras was lying, Combeferre could not decide (there just seemed no reason to, Combeferre couldn’t imagine a single thing that Enjolras would think he had to keep from him) but it was clear that Enjolras was distracted. His gaze kept wandering, and he lost track of the conversation, and he kept shifting about in his seat, a tick that Combeferre had never seen him display before.

“Is there something on the chair?” he finally asked, when Enjolras wiggled yet again, derailing both of their thoughts in the process.

“No, sorry.”

Combeferre stared openly at Enjolras, trying to pick out some tell about him that would explain why he was suddenly so restless and why he had sounded so  _guilty_. Something was not adding up and it chafed at Combeferre’s mind.

“Don’t be sorry. Is everything alright, Enjolras?”

“Yes. Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be?”

Lie. Such an obvious lie that it was almost painful to listen to.

“What’s wrong?”

“Combeferre, I promise you, nothing is wrong.” This he said with more conviction, but Combeferre was not at all satisfied. He raised a single, pointed eyebrow and Enjolras just scowled at him. “I am fine, Ferre.”

“Your classes are all going well?” Combeferre asked, trying to drag up some sort of mental checklist of possible problems.

“As fine as can be expected with some of the narrow-minded bigots that can get away with calling themselves professors around here…” Enjolras grumbled.

Well, it could possibly be that? Had a professor done something? But no, surely not, Enjolras’ rants about professors were legendary, and he didn’t look anymore irate than usual about the topic.

“And how are you getting along with Marius?” he tried instead. “I know he and Courf have been spending quite a bit of time together.”

“I like Marius just fine,” Enjolras snapped. “Is this supposed to be an interrogation?”

Combeferre gave a pacifying shrug, but didn’t let himself get cowed. “It’s meant to be a conversation. I’m conversing. We haven’t had a chance to really discuss Marius without Courfeyrac yet.” Enjolras seemed more antsy at this topic so even if it wasn’t Marius perhaps Combeferre was heading in the right direction at least. “He does have rather… interesting political views.”

Enjolras chuckled at this, which was a definite relief. “He hasn’t managed to say two words to you since that Republican spiel. ‘To be free’,” Enjolras said, a grin on his face as he savoured the words Combeferre had said to Marius earlier. Combeferre found himself laughing as well, though he did feel bad for how unsettled Marius seemed to still be around him. Courfeyrac, at least, had been amused by the entire thing and took great pleasure in reassuring and ribbing his soulmate in turn on the matter.

“I do like Marius though,” Enjolras continued, sincerely. “He may not be the best person for a debate. Or a conversation. Or common sense… But he’s nice enough and everyone seems to get along with him, and he is Courfeyrac’s soulmate…” Enjolras trailed off, staring distractedly down into the dregs of his coffee.

Combeferre was a second away from speaking again, from trying to probe his friend into some sort of confession, but Enjolras spoke first. “I do… Can I ask you something, Combeferre?”

“Of course.”

“In… in confidence?”

“Enjolras, always.”

Combeferre watched as Enjolras shifted about in his seat again, as if he suddenly found it terribly uncomfortable. Was he that worried about what he was building up to say? What could have Enjolras so on edge? Finally though, after glancing around as if to make sure no one were eavesdropping, Enjolras confessed:  
  
“It’s about sex.”

 


	17. Chapter 17

Combeferre tried but failed to keep both the relieved chuckle from slipping from his lips and the colour from rising on his cheeks. Of course the thing to unsettle Enjolras to the point of panicking Combeferre would be sex. Societally, sex with anyone other than your soulmate might not be endorsed, but Enjolras was particularly… well, virginal by any standards – as far as Combeferre was aware he had never shown any interest in exploring the subject matter, and this was something in which Combeferre had always taken a certain level of comfort. Courfeyrac was very free and open about his affections and this was not a sentiment Combeferre shared, so it was a relief to have Enjolras who was as disinterested in the subject as he was.

Not to say Combeferre had never spent time in the internet’s less scrupled corners, but unlike some people he was happy to keep the matter private.

Now that Enjolras was with his soulmate though, Combeferre supposed he should have foreseen this change.

“What, um, were you looking to discuss?” Combeferre asked, very aware of the fact that his discomfort was evident on his face. He was blushing bright red, he was certain, and Enjolras wasn’t looking much better.

“Um. I, uh… That is, Guillaume and I, we have…”

“Engaged in sexual activities?” Combeferre offered, an amused smile twitching at the corner of his lips.

“Y-yes. That. And… you know how I value your input…” Combeferre raised his eyes to the ceiling, pleading weakly for some sort of support. “I was hoping I might have your… advice. On a matter.”

“A sexual matter,” Combeferre clarified weakly.

“Yes.”

“Between you and Guillaume.”

“Yes…”

Combeferre pressed his fingers to his temple and tried to compose himself.  He wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or crawl under the table.

“Of course, if you want to speak to me about this Enjolras I am… perfectly happy to listen. And to offer what advice I can. But, um… I might not be the most qualified individual to help you.”  He gave Enjolras a rueful smile. “It might be more comfortable and fruitful for both of us if you asked Courfeyrac for this sort of assistance.”

Enjolras’ blush, if it was possible, deepened, and his gaze was fixed steadily on his coffee. “Right. Yes, of course. Sorry.”

“No need to be sorry, my friend,” Combeferre assured him, feeling a little bad but unspeakably relieved. He reached out to give Enjolras a reassuring pat but the moment his hand pressed against his arm, Enjolras leapt up as if shocked, chair skittering back.

Enjolras seemed startled by his own reaction. “I… Sorry. That was rude. I should probably head to class. I’ll speak with you later, Combeferre.”

“What? Enjolras, are you oka– Well, if you’re sure. I’ll see you later, Enjolras. Have a good class.”

Combeferre watched Enjolras dart from the coffee shop, and then glanced back at his still partially filled cup. Had he offended Enjolras so badly that he would run off like that? It seemed a little severe. Still, Enjolras had always been rather delicate on the matter of sex and easily made uncomfortable; Combeferre had no doubt that Courfeyrac would offer him much better guidance than he ever could have. With an exhausted sigh, he finished the last of his coffee and began to gather his stuff.

A worm of concern remained in his heart though, for all it seemed illogical.

-

Enjolras paced. He was in an unattractive alcove behind the law building which was really just a patch of overgrown concrete outside a side door. He had never seen anyone else there though, so it was where he occasionally tucked himself away when he needed to be away from people. And he needed that now.

He paced.

He felt stupid. He felt stupid for having jerked away from Combeferre’s touch. Combeferre was his oldest friend, they had always been close with one another, but for some reason the moment his fingers had curled around his arm panic had shot through Enjolras’ system so fast that it had sent him leaping to his feet before he could even think about it. Combeferre probably hated him now, probably though he was rude and irrational.

No, no, this was Combeferre. He had survived Enjolras during his second semester finals period when Enjolras had taken more courses than even he could handle and had been irritable ass for a solid three weeks. Hell, he had survived Enjolras during grade ten when he had had more anger than sense and more opinions than experience. Combeferre knew how to deal with Enjolras’ moods. Or did that just show what an awful friend Enjolras was? Did it show how selfish he was for assuming he could treat his friends so badly and just expect that they were happy to deal with his shit? Was there a breaking point for stuff like this, a point in which Combeferre would realize what an unpleasant person Enjolras could be? And what happened then?

(Memories of sharp words, of disappointment, of hard hands, of confinement, pressure, pain, disgust… he couldn’t survive it if Combeferre ever looked at him the way Guillaume had after Enjolras had broken that cup. Or when Enjolras had thrown up. Like he was something small and broken and hardly worth the effort it took to deal with him.)

(But Guillaume stayed.  _Oh god why wouldn’t he leave–_  He stayed because he loved Enjolras. Because he knew Enjolras acted only in good intentions, that he did his best. God did he do his best. If only that were enough. _It was never enough._ )

Hands fisted in his hair, Enjolras stopped pacing and sat down heavily in a corner instead, pressing himself against the walls, trying to make himself small.

He had been stupid to try to talk to Combeferre about this. And worst, he had known it. How often had he told himself that out of everyone, he couldn’t go to Combeferre because Combeferre was uncomfortable with talk about sex. But he was weak and he had caved and had gone to his guide, only to be reminded how dumb, dumb, _dumb_ it was to do.

But what was there left for him to do? There had to be something! There was always something that could be done, there was always a solution so long as you worked at it. It might not be easy, or nice, but there was always a way to make things better. So far nothing had worked, every way he had turned he’d failed, and everyone seemed to realize how ridiculous he was being but him. The police, the internet, Guillaume himself, Combeferre: he had turned to all of them and nothing had come good had come of it.

Talk to Courfeyrac, that was what Combeferre had recommended.

He didn’t want to upset Courfeyrac though, not when he was still settling into his relationship with Marius. ( _He didn’t want to have to hold himself up to the standard that Courfeyrac and Marius had set, he didn’t want to see his selfishness and hurt compared to their happiness._ ) But Courfeyrac knew people. He understood interpersonal relationships in a way Enjolras, and even Combeferre, never could, and he was certainly comfortable with talking about sex.

Yes. Maybe he would have to deal with Courfeyrac’s teasing, but Courfeyrac had never let him down. He could do this. He would talk to Courf.

_To: Courfeyrac  
Are you busy?_

He closed his eyes and dozed in the corner while he waited for a response. It was cold out, but his jacket was warm and there was something pleasant about the way the cold air bit into his skin. It was better than moist, enclosed warmth. In any case, he was exhausted and had almost fallen asleep when his phone vibrated in his hand.

_From: Courfeyrac  
i’m in class??? aren’t u???_

Oh. Of course. He was supposed to be in his last class, which meant that Courfeyrac would be in a lecture right now too.

_To: Courfeyrac_  
It was cancelled. Will you be at   
_home tonight?_

Courfeyrac’s response came almost instantly, which wasn’t surprising because he often complained about how boring this prof was.

_From: Courfeyrac_   
_i could be?_

_From: Courfeyrac_   
_i was going to be w Marius but_   
_I could ditch him if you want a_   
_girls night in ;)_

Enjolras chewed on his nail absently. And then stopped when he realized what he was doing because since when had he ever done that?

_To: Courfeyrac_   
_No, I don’t want to ruin your_   
_plans…_

_From: Courfeyrac_   
_e our plans were like… watch a_   
_movie? maybe even make_   
_food??? if we were feeling_   
_ambitious_

_From: Courfeyrac_   
_u’re kinda my best friend i think_   
_i can sacrifice mediocre pasta_   
_if u wanna hang out cause we_   
_haven’t in a while and it sucks_

_To: Courfeyrac_   
_It seriously isn’t a huge deal._   
_There was something I was_   
_hoping to ask your opinion on_   
_but it can wait… I’m going out_   
_to dinner with Gui anyway…_

_From: Courfeyrac_   
_dude, no. no excuses. u go have_   
_your dinner, i’ll eat mediocre_   
_pasta with my ridic sm and we_   
_meet at the apartment by 9/10_

_From: Courfeyrac_   
_we can talk about your thing_   
_and then watch disney and do_   
_each others nails itll be gr9_

_From: Courfeyrac_   
_deal?_

_To: Courfeyrac_   
_Deal. Thank you._

_From: Courfeyrac_   
_:D <3_

With a happy sigh, Enjolras curled in on himself and pressed his phone against his forehead, as if he could somehow project just how much he loved Courfeyrac through it to him. A part of him felt bad about taking him away from Marius, but the promise of being able to see him, of knowing that Courfeyrac would drag him onto their couch and force him to relax and play terrible movies and listen to him – that was just what he needed to make it through dinner. With a promise of that on the other side, he could do anything.

Checking the time, Enjolras forced himself to stand. It was technically still a few hours before he was supposed to meet Guillaume, but he figured he could use the same lie and say that his class was cancelled, or ended early, or something. Then they could have dinner sooner and he could go home and get into his pyjamas and curl up next to Courfeyrac sooner. He would just go to the bathroom and make sure that the make-up still looked right.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry. Combeferre tries. Just assume nothing nice is allowed to happen in this story.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me a while to get back to this, and sorry I haven't been answering any of the wonderful comments you guys have been leaving over the past few updates. My anxiety's been playing me like a violin lately so I've been struggling with working on this story;;;  
> I really do appreciate all the great things you guys have been saying, they mean a lot to me.

“It’s a shame your class was cancelled, I know you like that one,” Guillaume was saying. “I mean, it does win me more time with my soulmate so I’m not arguing, but stilll…”

“Mm,” said Enjolras.

Guillaume, while sympathetic, had been pleased to learn that Enjolras would be free earlier than expected. He had picked Enjolras up from campus and the two were now walking from their parking spot to the restaurant that Guillaume had been swearing up and down by. Right now, tucked against Guillaume side with his soulmate’s arm draping around him acting as a warm, solid shield against the chilly evening air, things were almost… nice. At first Enjolras had been stiff, hesitant to be touched, to have Guillaume’s body all over his like a constant, pervasive threat, but since they had left the car he had eased against the supportive body. It was cold and Guillaume was warm. The wind was harsh, and Guillaume’s hand, rubbing tender, loving strokes up his side, was gentle.  You could feel that peace of the world in a moment like this.

( _“You can’t argue for intrinsic good of the world,” Grantaire had said brazenly. “The very nature of life rejects the premise. Consider natural selection: if all was well in the world, if all was good and right and proper or whatever it looks like in your dreams, then there’d be no need for it.  It just wouldn’t exist because all would be equally deserving and supported. But the world isn’t like that. It’s dog eat dog, everything from microbes up are living an evolutionary fucking arm’s race, trying to outwit the competition. What makes you think humans are so good that we’re somehow excused from that? People want to survive and thrive and fuck over anything that comes in their way and they’ll damn well do it, no matter what bleeding heart bullshit you whisper in their ear.”_ )

Enjolras shook his head.

“You okay?” Guillaume asked, all concern.

“Yeah. Headache.”

“Not from…” The worry and remorse in Guillaume voice was palatable as he rose a hand to brush the side of his face that was carefully made over.

To his surprise, Enjolras found himself smiling fondly, the sympathy a soothing balm. “No,” he promised. “It was just a long day.”

“Oh, good,” Guillaume said, pressing a kiss to the side of Enjolras head. It was the kiss you give to a lover, a husband, someone dear, lingering and firm, full of promise and reassurance. Enjolras could feel himself curl closer to Guillaume, as if he could eke that love from him through contact alone.

( _“We aren’t animals, Grantaire, we aren’t slaves to our instincts or baser natures. Or at least… most of us aren’t,” Enjolras had replied coldly, just as Grantaire had raised his drink to his lips. A sardonic brow had then risen with the bottle and Grantiare had continued to drink. “Injustice can only be tolerated for so long,” Enjolras had continued. “Something has to give.”_ )

Dinner was delightful. And some deep part of Enjolras felt that there was something… wrong, in that. The rest of him was too relieved to care. After so much anxiety about what would happen, it was a relief to find himself in a warm restaurant while the wind rattled outside, with a plateful of hot, well-prepared food in front of him and his soulmate across from him. They spoke easily, because they always did. Guillaume told him about his internship, which Enjolras was enthralled by, and Enjolras shared anecdotes from his class, and they discussed a casual Islamophobic remark that had been made in one of them for a full twenty minutes before moving on, both now riled over the way injustice could be so pervasive, so subtle that it could be so easily misunderstood by well-meaning people.

By the time they had finished off their meals they were stuffed, but both of them had also spent the course of the evening eyeing a mound of pastry and ice cream and chocolate advertised in the menu. In the end they caved and agreed to split it.

“Slow down, were you actually planning on sharing or was this a ploy to steal my dessert?” Enjolras laughed, trying to bat Guillaume’s spoon out of the way. 

Guillaume battled back, trying to knock Enjolras’ defending spoon away as so he scooped up a mound of soft, warm chocolate.  Ultimately he succeeded, with a laughing bark of triumph.  When Enjolras swooped in to try to steal it straight from his spoon, Guillaume darted forward and pressed it against Enjolras’ nose in retaliation, leaving a warm blob of chocolate behind. Guillaume lost it then when he saw the startled, cross-eyed expression on Enjolras face and, once he realized what had happened, Enjolras wasn’t far behind, both choking on their laughter and dessert.

“Ange,” Guillaume said, leaning forward and cupping Enjolras’ face. “You’ve got a little something…” He kissed his nose. Enjolras leaned in and kissed him back properly. Guillaume tasted sweet, like the chocolate both of them had been eating.

The rest of the dessert was finished slowly. They continued to talk, no longer about politics but about a television show they were watching together; their feet were intertwined and the dessert was cooked to perfection. By the time Guillaume had paid the bill – “I said it was my treat, Ange. I want to spoil my soulmate a little, you’re worth it.” – Enjolras didn’t need any prompting to fold himself against Guillaume for the walk back to the car. In all the… excitement over the past few days, Enjolras had forgotten this. Forgotten how warm, and tender, and considerate he was, forgotten how it felt to love and be loved by him. They were soulmates, they fit together. Their interests matched up, their passions were synchronized, they understood each other perfectly.

( _“‘Something has to give’ – like what?  Is that why there are girls who claim feminism is unnecessary or why people think racism is dead?  Say what you like, Apollo, but life can adapt to some pretty crazy shit.”_ )

And so when they were once again in the car with the heater going and Guillaume asked if he wanted to come back to his place to continue their show a _yes_ sprung immediately onto Enjolras’ tongue. He missed lying bonelessly against Guillaume on the couch while the TV played. He missed falling asleep to the sound of his breathing and feeling his hands gently brush his hair; he missed what they had had before the… the confusion. He wanted it back. And surely Courf wouldn’t mind getting to spend the full night with Marius, this was probably really inconvenient for both of them, he could easily cancel…

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

_From: Courfeyrac_  
_guess who bought like a pound of popcorn~ ;)_

Enjolras breathed deep. “I can’t go home with you tonight. I’d promised Courfeyrac we’d hang out after we were both done with our dates,” Enjolras said truthfully. “We haven’t really spent much time together lately and he– we’ve both missed it.”

“But on a date night?” asked Guillaume, and he sounded so heartbroken that Enjolras wanted to take everything back and promise they could go back to Guillaume’s and cuddle on the couch. 

“Yeah, sorry. We’d already made plans.”

“Sure, okay, I get it. If you want to, it’s your choice, right? I mean, it just seems a little weird that he’s been basically ignoring you, and now, tonight of all nights he decides he wants to hang out…”

“What? No, he hasn’t… he hasn’t been ignoring me. We’ve both been busy.”

Guillaume raised a pointed eyebrow at Enjolras which slowly became a more concerned expression that made Enjorlas’ gut twist. It was a pitying look that said it knew something you hadn’t yet realized, and it didn’t want to be the one to tell you. “Enjolras… you guys are  _roommates_. You don’t just go this long without seeing your  _roommate_  by accident. I mean, what are the odds, right? No, sorry, forget that. God, no, that was rude. You’re probably right. I’m sure Courfeyrac’s been busy.”

“He has been. So have I.”

“Right, no, you’re right.

“This is the only time we’ve both been free recently.”

“I know, ange,” said Guillaume placatingly, leaning forward to press a kiss against Enjolras cheek. “If this is really how you want to spend your evening then I hope you have a good time. Just… ange, you promise that you’re not… not running away from me? That’s you’re not… avoiding me?”

“No! God, no, I promise, I would never–!” How near to the truth that hit made Enjolras deny it all the more vehemently, trying to fight back the guilt and convince himself that he was  _not_  running away. He was just going to spend time with Courfeyrac, one of his best friends. He was allowed to do that, see his friends.

They pulled up to the curb outside the apartment.

“Okay, ange.” He reached out a hand so he could take one of Enjolras’, stroking the back gently with his thumb. “I’ll miss you, love. Have a good night with Courfeyrac.”

Enjolras nodded and was about to leave when Guillaume’s travelling thumb paused.

“What’s that?”

At first Enjolras thought he meant the faint ring of bruises that just poked out of the sleeve of his jacket, but when Guillaume pushed the sleeve up a little further Enjolras realized the truth. Faint and smudged after being neglected for a couple days, was the name of the woman that Enjolras had scrawled so hastily on his wrist that one day in Guillaume’s apartment.

“Who’s… Fantine?”

Blood roared in Enjolras’ ears. Suddenly, the car was too small, the recycled heat was suffocating, and the wind outside howled like accusations. The name seemed to grow bigger and bigger until it filled Enjolras’ vision with its hasty, black scrawl. “It,” he heard himself say distantly as his mind raced, trying to come up with an explanation but he was a terrible liar – he needed to run, run away, he needed to leave this car and get away from Guillaume and get to Courfeyrac now and he almost had but this awful name was stopping him. Why had he written it down? Why had he looked it up at all? Why hadn’t he cleaned it away after all that time spent in the shower, why hadn’t he at least noticed it?   
  
Because the bruises had been much more distracting than an innocent word he himself had written on his arm…

“It’s a person I need to research for a history project,” said Enjolras. “Didn’t want to forget the name…”

“Oh? Yeah, wouldn’t want that…” Enjolras was very aware that Guillaume’s eyes were searching his face. Did he look guilty? How does a person look guilty? How does a person  _not_  look guilty? He had never asked himself this before and now he was regretting it.

“Well, I’ll see you later, ange.”

Unable to believe that he was being let go, Enjolras pulled back the minute Guillaume’s fingers had released his wrist and he practically threw himself out of the car. Calling a quick goodbye, he ran for the apartment.

 


	19. Chapter 19

“Oh there you– wow, yeah, okay, no reason to say hi or anything, don’t even worry about it.”

Enjolras moved straight past Courfeyrac who was sitting on the couch and appeared to be watching some home makeover show and went straight to the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He was trembling, he realized in horror once he was safe behind the door. _Shaking._ He did not shake. Pressing his hands against the bathroom counter he curled his fingers tightly enough around the edge that his knuckles ached but at least they were still now. It wasn’t fear exactly that made his hands tremble (he was not afraid of his soulmate, he was not, he didn’t fear Guillaume. Guillaume rubbed his foot against his ankle during dinner and talked about the treatment of invisible disabilities in society, he wasn’t a scary person) but he couldn’t pretend there wasn’t an element of it in there. Would Guillaume get curious and look up the name? What would happen if he did and that article came up? Would he read it? What would he think of Enjolras? What would he _do_?

Enjolras grabbed a rag by the sink and, covering it in soap, began scrubbing at his wrist, desperately trying to rub the dooming black word from his arm. It was too late of course, no amount of soap and water could undo the damage that had already be done; scraping away layers of skin wouldn’t remove that searching, suspicious look from Guillaume’s eyes.

The water was still running but the rag slipped from Enjolras’ fingers as he sank to the floor and pressed his head against the cabinet. His wrist _hurt_. Bruises still ringed it and they seemed even more jarring against the now raw-red patch of flesh and smudges of black ink that still refused to leave his skin. Why had he, had he… He wasn’t even sure what he regretted but oh god did the regret gnaw at him, like something living and furious in his stomach that was going to tear him apart from the inside out. If Guillaume looked up the name and figured out what Enjolras had been searching would he ever trust him again?

But the evening had been so _good_.

But maybe it would be okay. Maybe Guillaume would take it at face value. Maybe he would believe that it was some inconsequential name from a history class and not bother with it. Maybe the name would turn up too many results for Guillaume to unearth one article from years ago.

_Maybe, maybe, maybe_. Enjolras hated not knowing, he hated these variables. Interpersonal relationships had never been his strong suit – he loved his friends, never doubt that, but expressing that affection? Understanding the nuances of it? He struggled. This wasn’t like a protest or a rally, wasn’t an essay or a speech or a philosophy, it wasn’t something he could study and plan for.

“Enjolras?” There was a soft knocking at the bathroom door. “Enjolras, are you okay?”

And suddenly the world returned to him, expanding again beyond the narrow focus of swirling, all-consuming panic in his brain. The cool wood of the bathroom cabinet pressed against his forehead, the cold from the floor chilled his hands and knees, and the hiss of still-running water filled the room. Beyond that the TV chattered, and most importantly just beyond the door was Courfeyrac. Enjolras might not understand people but Courfeyrac did. That was why he was here.

It seemed to take a herculean effort, but Enjolras called out a “Fine” in the most normal voice he could manage and pushed himself upright again. He turned off the tap and took a moment to examine his face in the mirror – bruises still hidden, perfect. With a deep breath, he attempted to school his face and turned to open the door and face the world again, even if that world was only Courfeyrac and bad reality television.

-

Courfeyrac was waiting outside the door, looking concerned. When Enjolras didn’t say anything and walked straight past him to the living room Courf followed, calling, “Don’t TMI me or anything, but what the heck was that all about?”

Enjolras dropped onto the couch and appreciated that few precious seconds of solitude it offered – the couch faced away from the hall so he was perfectly hidden by its back, expression invisible to Courfeyrac. Remember, he scolded himself, don’t do what you did to Combeferre. Courfeyrac doesn’t want disgusting details, all you need is some general advice, don’t fuck this up.

“I just… really had to pee.”

“R- _ight_ ,” said Courfeyrac dryly as he threw himself onto the couch next to Enjolras. “Is this where I pretend that you aren’t the worst liar _ever_ and that that makes any sense at all?”

“I, I had a lot to drink at the restaurant,” said Enjolras in a desperate attempt to explain that shameful moment away. “I just really had to use the bathroom.”

“Fine, keep up your little charade if you must. Once we’re in proper sleepover party attire I’ll begin working every dirty secret free – come on, let’s get into pyjamas.”

It became easier after that; this was familiar, this was _easy_. Enjolras went to change into pyjamas and took a moment to revel in the wonderful feeling of being in his own room again. It had the feel of a room that had been neglected for too long, but it was a space specifically tailored to his own needs and he suddenly missed it as keenly as he would an old friend. He resisted the urge to throw himself onto the bed and bury himself in blankets, and instead found the fuzzy, rooster-patterned pyjama bottoms that Courfeyrac had gifted him (“I wanted to get them for you ‘cause of the whole French obsession you’ve got going on and Grantaire wanted me to get them for you because, and I quote, 'you’re a cocky asshole’ – or maybe it was something else about cocks and assholes…? Kidding! Calm down. Either way, I couldn’t see any downsides to buying them!”) and a well-worn university t-shirt. When he emerged it was to see Courfeyrac in garishly bright bottoms and a shirt that not only dwarfed him but also had a string of eleven-dotted Bohr diagrams followed by an anatomical diagram of a bat which made Enjolras suspect that it had probably been appropriated from Combeferre’s closet at some point.

After Courfeyrac had a chance to cackle in joy at seeing Enjolras wearing his gift (something that made Enjolras feel light and pleased in a way he hadn’t in a while) they proceeded to the living room. While Enjolras pulled movies out from the box that was shoved in the corner Courfeyrac put popcorn into the microwave and made tea.

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac shouted from the kitchen, “I literally could not care less about your issues with fictional monarchies, _Princess Diaries_ is _the_ lazy movie night movie.”

“It’s a ridiculous movie; there’s no reason to glorify societies that are ruled by family-bred dictators established by blood rather than competency or public opinion. I still refuse to watch it. No, Courf.”

“Fine, party pooper, a compromise then: _Ever After_.” And that was normally a move that worked. As a rule Enjolras disliked shows where monarchies were portrayed as idealistic but he was also enormously fond of Danielle’s spirit and Henry’s character growth. Normally he would agree to this compromise – he had many times in the past, in fact, _Ever After_ was one of his and Courf’s go-to movies. But he found his tongue stilled this time; suddenly the prospect of seeing Danielle save herself again and again was grossly outweighed by the knowledge that it would also mean watching these characters navigate the complications of having a soulmate from a different social class. Though the feelings were indistinct, nameless, Enjolras couldn’t deny the sense of dread that came from the idea of seeing the words “Mine slipped his shoe” writ across the ankle of one his favourite heroines shoved in his face for two hours.

“How about _Legally Blonde_ instead?” said Enjolras. At least soulmate tattoos didn’t really become relevant until nearly the end of that film. Maybe he could even break his and Courfeyrac’s tradition and suggest an action movie instead, one that was all explosions and disregard to societal ramifications of wholesale destruction but which had no romance to speak of. He refused to consider the implications of this desperate need not to think about soulmates.

Courfeyrac re-entered the living room then though and threw a freshly popped bag of popcorn at Enjolras’ head while laughing. “Of course you’d want _Legally Blonde_. Does Guillaume know about the giant crush you have on Elle Woods? Should he be jealous?”

Enjolras flushed but couldn’t think of anything with which to respond to that. Though the rational part of him knew that Courfeyrac hadn’t meant to chastise him, that part was pushed to the side by a sudden, choking wave of shame; he wished he had never mentioned it, how dare he suggest a film that had the protagonist dating someone other than her soulmate at the beginning of the movie? Courfeyrac must not have noticed his roommate’s sudden unease though because after bringing in the tea he unearthed their copy of it and booted up their old, unreliable DVD player. For a while, they only watched.

“Okay, so,” said Courfeyrac nudging Enjolras with his foot as Elle lay in her bed with a box of post-breakup chocolate, “talk.”

“Hm?” said Enjolras, feigning ignorance. This had been his plan, his request, but suddenly his confidence was fleeing him once again.

“Don’t _hmmmm_ me,” said Courfeyrac. “What was this thing that you wanted to talk to me about so badly? Come on, I’ve tried to keep cool but I’m dying from curiosity, Enj, I–”

“ _Don’t call me that._ ”

“…What?”

Enjolras kept his eyes glued to the screen. “That nickname. Can you just stop with it already?”

“What, ‘Enj’? I’ve been calling you that for years…”

“And now I’m telling you it’s annoying. Can you drop it?”

“Whoa, okay, if it matters that much,” said Courfeyrac, tone uncertain, disbelieving.

There was silence after that, for a few minutes at least. Enjolras watched Elle’s friends talk shit about her as they got their nails done. Guillaume’s voice whispered in his head: _it just seems a little weird that he’s been basically ignoring you_. Enjolras shuddered and sunk deeper under the blankets he and Courfeyrac had piled on top of the couch; could you blame Courf if he had been ignoring him? God, Courfeyrac had given up his date with Marius because Enjolras had begged him to and now he was acting like a complete asshole…

“Courf, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

Courfeyrac’s hand found his under the blankets and gave it a squeeze. “It’s fine, Enjolras.”

“I’ve just been… I’ve been stressed lately.”

“Yeah, I kinda figured. I also kinda figured that if you did really hate that nickname you’d have told me a _long_ time ago. You basically eviscerated Grantaire the first time he tried to call you Apollo. But if you don’t want me to call you that anymore, I won’t.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras whispered. Courfeyrac squeezed his hand again.

“What’s up?” Courfeyrac prompted.

Slowly, Enjolras exhaled, trying to calm down his heart which was irrationally racing in his chest. There was no reason to be afraid, so why could he feel himself wanting to run away and hide in his room? “Promise you won’t laugh?” he said. Courfeyrac had teased him so often about needing The Talk that he was sure Courfeyrac would find the whole thing hilarious that Enjolras had finally come to him to ask him about sex.

“Cross my heart,” said Courfeyrac solemnly.

“Okay. Um. So, Guillaume and I, we’ve… we’ve…” He tried to think of a way to encompass everything that had happened, to encompass the emotion, the physicality, the way his gut still knotted and his muscles began to tremble when he thought about it. “We’ve had… sex… You promised you wouldn’t laugh!”

“I’m not laughing!” said Courfeyrac, though his voice was tight and a smile was stretching across his face; it was clear he was only just barely fighting it back. “I’m sorry, it’s just… we’re actually doing this. This might be the best day of my life.”

Well it was one of Enjolras’ worse.

“So, finally come to the expert then? What can I teach you, young padawan?”

Enjolras fought for the words. His hand was no longer in Courfeyrac’s and he was finding that he missed the reassuring weight. “Is it supposed to be so… overwhelming?”

Courfeyrac _winked_ at him. “If you’re doing it right.” Oh.

Swinging an arm around Enjolras shoulder, Courfeyrac pulled Enjolras close. “Okay, let me give you the low down on all things sexy. I’ll teach you how to drive your man _wild_.”

-

Enjolras was relieved when Courfeyrac had finally finished and they could return to the movie. Courfeyrac had said a lot and Enjolras miserably had to accept that it more or less boiled down to him being inexperienced. He didn’t know any of the “techniques” that Courfeyrac had helpfully described in horrifying detail. He hadn’t known how to prepare himself beforehand (god, and even if it was supposed to make things hurt less, he couldn’t imagine putting himself through that in preparation for _even more_ ), hadn’t known how much lube to use (don’t think about how slimy it is, don’t think about the unsettling way it changes from cold to warm, the _warm wet slick–_ don’t think about it!) or the different angles it could be done at. He didn’t know how to give head (couldn’t even go near a dick without throwing up, disgusting) never mind “deep throat” which Courfeyrac had mentioned with offhanded amusement that boggled Enjolras – how could the idea of having a penis _shoved down your throat_ not freeze anybody else’s blood? And, most importantly, he realized how little he had been thinking of Guillaume. He had been told it often enough by now, but Courfeyrac kept mentioning making your partner feel good – maybe if only he hadn’t been so damn stubborn it wouldn’t have been so bad?

God, he didn’t know.

He didn’t know how he could do this again.

At least Coufeyrac had finally stopped talking about dicks and assholes and things that had always made Enjolras uncomfortable but now made him feel nearly sick.

At least now he could just watch Elle get through Harvard. Watch her find her true soulmate and fall in love, her story of growth validated by her connecting with her true better half.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again I'm mercilessly bastardizing real life media to fit into my soulmate!au world. In case anyone is unaware Princess Diaries, Legally Blonde, and Ever After are all actual films, none of which have a damn thing to do with soulmates and all of which you should definitely watch if you haven't yet


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for more physical abuse, some largely undescriptive/off-screen rape, and slightly more detailed masturbation

“You’re leaving already?” said Feuilly, sounding disappointed.

It had been a few days since his and Courfeyrac’s movie night and between school and Amis work Enjolras had found himself constantly surrounded by people but not around his soulmate very much.

(And this, he told himself, was a complete coincidence.)

But it also gave weight to the text message he had just received.

_From: Gui  
You need to come home_

He had wanted to argue it, he really had. He, Feuilly, and Jehan had been having a fascinating discussion in regards to sociopolitical commentary found in art, and whether or not it was an effective medium of expressing discontent if the layman couldn’t be expected to understand it. While there had been no clear cut plans for the evening, he had been sipping on a glass of sweet, red wine and had intended to spend a number of hours yet in the company of his friends. Until his phone had broken the gentle murmur of familiar voices.

Because how could he argue it? He had been ignoring his soulmate, there was no denying that. Even beyond the simple fact that his schedule had been busy, he hadn’t made any effort to contact Guillaume and he knew it. So could he really deny him this one request?

“Sorry, Guillaume needs me,” he said apologetically, waving his phone.

“So this is how Revolution is tamed,” commented Grantaire from where he sat with Joly and Musichetta. “Not with a bang but a whimper, eh?” He made a whip-crack noise; Enjolras scowled.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he snapped. No one understood. Or maybe everyone but him understood and that’s why things were so difficult.

“Ooh, right, the mysteries of _true love_ ,” sang Grantaire.

“Good _bye_ , Grantaire.” He turned and began shoving his way to the door.

“Bros before souls’!” Courfeyrac shouted at his back, making Bossuet next to him laugh, but Enjolras just pressed on into the cool evening.

-

“Hey, I’m home–”

“Where have you been?”

Through serious concentration Enjolras kept himself from freezing up at the harsh tone he was greeted with; he finished hanging up his jacket and tucking his shoes away.

“I was with my friends?” he said, trying to remind himself that he wasn’t lying and that he had nothing to feel guilty over.

“Oh right, I forgot how much more important friends are than _your soulmate_ ,” Guillaume growled, crowding into Enjolras’ space.

Enjolras tried to straighten his back when he realized that he was hunching away from Guillaume, trying to make himself smaller – he wasn’t afraid of his soulmate and didn’t need to curl away.

“I didn’t say that. I was just hanging out with them, you could have come.”

“You didn’t even tell me where you fucking were, Enjolras.” This was very true. And very intentional. Enjolras wanted to cry at the feeling of guilt that followed that statement because he was so, so tired of feeling guilty.

“Sorry.”

“I haven’t seen you in a _week_.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve been busy.”

“I wish I could believe that.” His voice was so low it was like he hadn’t spoken at all, like the words had been delivered directly to Enjolras’ trembling heart.

“You can…”

“Right.”

“Gui–”

“ _Sit the fuck down, Enjolras,_ ” Guillaume snarled, grabbing Enjolras shoulder and flinging him towards the couch. Enjolras stumbled and hit it hard, collapsing into it and staying down, only watching as Guillaume grabbed his laptop from where it sat on a chair and practically slammed it onto Enjolras lap. “How the fuck am I supposed to trust this? What the _fuck_?”

It was the news article.

“At first I wasn’t going to bother looking the name up because I thought, hey, this is my angel we’re talking about, he wouldn’t _lie to me_ , would he? Of course not.” Guillaume grabbed the laptop and flung it across the couch. He then grabbed Enjolras by his collar and dragged him to the floor. “But then there was that whole thing with sneaking away from me _on a date night_ to go see other people.”

“I wasn’t… not seeing… It was just Courf…”

Guillaume didn’t care though. He threw Enjolras to the ground. Shuddering, Enjolras lay there, staring up as his soulmate towered over him, this scene becoming all too familiar.

“And then, _then_ , you disappear _for a week_ , a week, Enjolras!”

It hadn’t been a full week, not quite. But Enjolras didn’t dare say anything that might provoke him further.

“And so then I started thinking, huh, my angel is acting kind of strangely. And there was that whole… name thing. Fantine. Hmm, who is Fantine? He’s not seeing someone else, is he…?”

Enjolras gasped. “I would never–!”

“No you’d do something even fucking _worse_ ,” yelled Guillaume, kicking Enjolras in the ribs, making him fold in on himself. “What did you think you were going to get out of some crazy person’s lies? She was fucking mental, and was doing it for attention, Enjolras, what did you think you’d get out of that? Were you planning on doing that to _me_?”

“No,” sobbed Enjolras. He didn’t even care that it was a lie, he wanted this to stop.

“ _DO– NOT– LIE– TO– ME!_ ” Each word was punctuated with a kick until finally Enjolras could do nothing but apologize over and over under the onslaught.

Finally it did stop, and Guillaume knelt down next to him, gently running his hands down Enjolras’ side, making him shiver in fearful anticipation. All Guillaume did though was delicately lift Enjolras from the floor and pull him into his lap. With one hand stroking through Enjolras’ hair, Enjolras found himself relaxing minutely into his soulmate’s embrace. Maybe it was over. He had never messed up so badly, he couldn’t believe he had dared to look something like that up.

“I love you, ange,” whispered Guillaume. “I don’t want to believe that you would do something like that to me, but I can’t see any other explanation. You must know that none of what that woman was saying was true. She’s delusional, and Enjolras… if you’re feeling that way… if you’re sick…”

“I’m not– I’m sorry,” said Enjolras. And, not for the first time, he considered telling the whole truth, he considered admitting to his trips to the police and his friends. In the end though he… couldn’t. He couldn’t admit how hard he had tried to do exactly what Guillaume feared and he couldn’t admit how ashamed he was at being shot down by everyone. “I love you,” he said instead.

“I want to forgive you, ange, but…”

“Please…”

“…Things need to change though. I need to be able to trust you.”

“Please, anything.”

“Okay. For you, ange, because I love you. Because you’re my soulmate and I know you love me as much as I love you. No more going out without telling me, okay? That seems reasonable; just let me know where you’re going to be so I don’t need to worry about you so much anymore.”

Enjolras nodded. That seemed fair. Honestly, it seemed like something he should have even been doing before now; not keeping Guillaume informed had been negligent, of course his soulmate would want to know where he was.

“You know, babe, why don’t you just move in here? You basically live here anyway, and I never know whose place you’re going to be sleeping at when things are like this, so why don’t we just make it official?”

Enjolras’ stomach lurched. The idea of giving up his room, however untouched it now was, was horrifying. But Guillaume was right. They were soulmates, they really should have moved in together by now – them having not done so was entirely Enjolras’ doing. His selfish needs. And he owed Guillaume, for being understanding.

“Okay.”

“Great, thank you, ange,” Guillaume said, kissing his head. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Enjolras repeated.

“Hey, it’s been a week. How about we head to bed and make up for some lost time?” Guillaume said, pulling back and grinning cheekily at Enjolras. “Make love to me, ange.”

Enjolras took a deep breath. Remembered what Courfeyrac had told him. And nodded mutely, allowing himself to be taken by the hand and lead to Guillaume’s bedroom.

He would fix this.

-

Enjolras tried to take his friends’ advice.

He tried to remember Courfeyrac’s long winding explanations and suggestions that had left him red-faced and Courfeyrac laughing. But what had been embarrassing but ultimately benign in his own, safe living room, under blankets with Elle Woods talking in the background, morphed into something ugly and twisted once he was separated from that.

He tried… practising, on his own. He would lie in Guillaume’s bed when his soulmate was out and move his hands, pull, probe, rub. It wasn’t that he had never grown aroused before, just that it had never been as prevalent as media suggested it was meant to be. And he had never tried thinking of anyone during these sessions. He had done it because his body demanded it, because occasionally it felt good… but it had always been with a vague focus on getting it finished. Heck, sometimes he would quit in the middle of things, or read his textbooks during it, because he’d grown bored by the activity. Now he tried to force himself to think about Guillaume, to envision what he would like, how he would appreciate this. Think about the other person, that had been Courfeyrac’s advice, because everyone should be enjoying themselves.  Sex was give and take, everyone should be having fun – and Enjolras was painfully aware that he wasn’t giving Guillaume what he wanted or needed. But these thoughts ruined whatever mood there was. His erection would flag and his gut would squirm unhappily at the unexpected intrusion of another person.

It didn’t help much with Guillaume either. Enjolras took precautions where he could. He would beg exhaustion or headaches, he would encourage them to stay out with friends longer than he normally would or try to get Guillaume distracted by shows and documentaries and articles until neither of them could do anything but collapse exhausted into bed. Sometimes this succeeded. They were some of the best times. There was nothing more enjoyable than falling asleep on the couch next to Guillaume as they discussed a local news story that piqued them both. These were the times when Enjolras remembered just how much he loved Guillaume.

But those days never lasted. One good night always lead to a bad one. Nights where he was laying against the bed, blanket fisted in his hands so tightly it made his fingers cramp, where he savaged his lip and shuddered under Guillaume’s hands, where he fought, fought, fought not to throw up again. He tried to pay attention to Guillaume. He tried to relax, to get use to the sight and smell and taste, to say words that would be arousing. He tried everything and nothing helped.

_It’s gotten better, at least,_ Enjolras thought to himself, after Guillaume had woken him up in the morning with nuzzles and kisses and then agonizingly slow, lazy sex. As much as he hated the prolongment of an activity he just wanted to get out of the way, at least it hadn’t hurt. There had been no blood or cries or bruises. 

(Not to say there were no more bruises ever. Enjolras had eventually bought his own make-up, and had gotten much better at applying it when necessary. Guillaume either didn’t notice or didn’t comment.)

Even now though, when Enjolras was out with friends without Guillaume, when his phone would chime with a text message from Guillaume reminding him that he had promised to come home in half a hour, he would think about saying something. Fantasize, really, because he had already tried talking about it and he didn’t want a repeat performance; he would dream about them agreeing with him, about them somehow making everything better.

(One afternoon, when Guillaume had been at work and Enjolras had been leafing through one of the many books he had brought over, a thin, cardboard sleeve had slipped out from between the pages. Enjolras recognized it immediately and, with trembling fingers, had pinched it open and let its delicate contents flutter onto the table. A head of snakes, a killer vision, and no soulmate tattoo, that was the cursed creature that looked back at him from the paper cut out. Medusa. Punished for having sex in a goddess’ temple. ( _Raped, and protected by the goddess whose temple had been abused…_ ) Enjolras stroked the black lettering on his wrist, tried to envision what it would look like if those letters were missing, but he couldn’t. He returned the cut out to the sleeve and vowed to return the wretched thing to Grantaire, like he had meant to ages ago. If it ended up in his bedside cabinet instead, well, it was only to keep it safe.)

In any case, for his friends to save him it would require there being a problem.

And all of his friends loved Guillaume. This had seemed like a blessing when he had first introduced his soulmate but now he uncharitable wished that someone would say something terrible that he didn’t dare speak out loud.

-


	21. Chapter 21

Grantaire fucking hated Guillaume.

He had tried, he had tried so fucking hard but it did no good. He  _hated_  Enjolras’ soulmate. At first he had felt guilty about it because he had been self-aware enough to know that the hatred came from jealousy. (Jealousy over Enjolras for having a soulmate he loved or jealousy over Guillaume for…? – well, that was a topic best left untouched.) But now he was beginning to suspect that Guillaume hated him in equal measure, which was actually something of a surprise to realize since Guillaume seemed like a genuinely agreeable fellow to everyone else.

Of course, none of the others had exactly given him reason to hate them, not like how Grantaire had. Because heaven knew Grantaire couldn’t help but ruin the good things in his life.

( _He would always be a tiny bit resentful of Bahorel inviting Guillaume to join the two of them kickboxing all those months ago. But hey, where better to try to bond with someone you disliked than kickboxing, right? Ideally, the mutual physical exertion and satisfaction would ease them into a friendship, and if that failed then, well, at least you were in a place where you could punch the other person’s nose in. It worked well enough for him and Bahorel, Grantaire had tried to tell himself; maybe indulging in a shared interest would warm Guillaume to him._

_Instead he had finished suiting up and had stepped out to the practice floor to see Guillaume standing there in those fucking shorts, all nonchalant muscles and easy confidence and had had to wrestle the burning jealousy back down before he could cross the floor and try to play nice. Because of course Enjolras’ soulmate was literally perfect in every conceivable facet, of fucking course._ )

Then again sometimes Grantaire couldn’t help but feel like he wasn’t the only one that felt uncomfortable in Guillaume’s presence. Maybe it was wishful thinking or projecting or whatever, but he swore sometimes Enjolras looked like he was one wrong move away from jumping as far away from Guillaume as was physically possible. Those moments when Guillaume’s hand casually dropped around Enjolras’ waist, or when he had pulled Enjolras into his lap, or even if he was just teasing kisses out of him, Enjolras would sometimes – not always, but sometimes – get this… hunted look.

( _In the end, despite significant effort on Grantaire’s part, the kickboxing had turned out to be more of a punch-his-nose-in sort of match then a best-buddies-5ever sort of match. There had been something about watching a your crush’s soulmate’s perfect, lithe body and mind moving together like a duet that didn’t do much to endear him to the guy. He hoped, at least, that it hadn’t been obvious. But his personal stewing had meant that he’d completely missed the next kick when it came._

_He had seen the shift of Guillaume’s knee and had raised his gloved fists, preparing to block, but instead of the foot lifting to strike at his chest, he had felt the sudden, jarring connection when it struck his shin, sending splinters of unexpected pain up his leg and making his knee buckle._

_“The_ fuck _, man?” Grantaire had snarled._

_“Oh sorry, are we not playing international rules?”_

_“No,” Grantaire had replied coldly, straightening and readying his stance. He had tried to convince himself that it had been an honest mistake, but he also knew that Bahorel had briefed Guillaume on the way over and he couldn’t imagine Bahorel not having the foresight to tell him that this gym generally encouraged full contact instead of international rules. Which meant no strikes below the waist._

_“My bad; honest mistake,” Guillaume had said._ )

- 

Grantaire was miserably drunk. There was a big difference between Grantaire being drunk and miserably drunk. Drunk Grantaire was generally a happy, if boisterous, creature, content to sing and hum and tease his friends. Drunk Grantaire was liberated from concerns that dragged down on Sober Grantaire and, for an evening, he flew free. Miserably Drunk Grantaire wallowed. All the feelings he sought to leave behind sucked him down like a quagmire and his mind spun, no less troubled but all the more circular from the alcohol.

So when he watched Enjolras step away from Guillaume, who had come up behind him and placed a hand on his back (prompting, promising, whatever it was it had been intimate) his mind droned loud and irritating like a fly. Enjolras was nothing but professional and dedicated though and even true loved didn’t seem to endear him to PDA, but that didn’t stop Grantaire’s mind from  _imagining_  what would happen if Enjolras hadn’t stepped away, or what happened when he and Guillaume were alone and Enjolras didn’t need to keep up appearances.

Somehow, the idea of those hidden, intimate moments were worse than watching the two make out in front of him. Let him see the worst of it and have his mind put at rest!

“Liberate those kisses, O Captain, my Captain!” sang Grantaire, tongue drunkenly stumbling over the words and lips caressing the scorn in them. He let his words carry him and he rose to stand on his chair. “O how you oppress them, your kisses, how you tap them down under the oligarchical rule of your ruthless logic and frigid aloofness. Allow the democracy you preach to flourish first within yourself, for we all vote to see the passions run free – Guillaume most of all, poor bastard that he is, he is the working class to your austere humour’s one percent!”

Enjolras rounded on Grantaire, fury reddening his cheeks. The blaze in his eyes struck Grantaire through the heart, nearly sending him toppling from his perch just so he could fall at Enjolras’ feet. 

“Sit down, Grantaire; you’re drunk,” he said coldly.

Drunk he was! Drunk and petty and masochistic, so instead of sitting down Grantaire leapt to the table top, swinging his drink wildly. Enjolras still glowered but their friends laughed so Grantaire continued.

“Enough with your speeches, enough with your- your oppression of the little people! I demand a kiss freed for this poor soul! I demand to see you exercise the liberties you sing to us – take a leaf from good Courfeyrac and Marius’ book, they are more politically just than you, you miser! You capitalistic swine, demanding payment for love you might otherwise share fairly among the masses!”

“ _Sit down!_ ”

“Liberty!”

Enjolras snarled wordlessly at him, cheeks still flaming red but he seemed to realize capitulating would end the distraction quicker than a meaningless fight with a drunk and the affair ended as Grantaire had demanded. And it hurt exactly as much as Grantaire had feared it would. Enjolras had turned to the eagerly waiting Guillaume and let himself get pulled aside and kissed soundly, to the approval and cat-calls of their friends, and Grantaire finally dropped from the table, heart breaking, heartbroken. But at least he had caused this, it was pain he had chosen, not pain that was forced upon him.

He could hear Joly murmuring something to him but he sunk past his friend, past his chair, to puddle upon the floor. He had had enough for tonight and chose to stay curled on the Musain’s floor, despite Joly’s insistent hands upon him. Let sleep come, let oblivion gift its reprieve to him; he closed his eyes to Enjolras and his soulmate. He saw no more.

-

Enjolras breathed. The body that curled around his breathed also, but out of time. Just as Enjolras inhaled he could feel a puff of breath caress the back of his neck and he hated it.

The body, at least, slept. A part of Enjolras was envious and longed for that darkness, but the rest of him was relieved to have these moments, these quiet, lonely moment when everything had ended and the horror was fading into the shadows of the room, and Enjolras could almost believe he was alone if it wasn’t for the breaths on the back of his neck.

With practised motions, Enjolras shifted away from the chest curved against his back so that he could reach the bedside cabinet and pull out one of the battered novels he kept in it, one that was tucked under the other, more frequently read ones. This one was uninspiring and he kept it only because he had nothing better to do with it. He had little interest in it but Guillaume had even less. From between its pages Enjolras slipped out a cardboard sleeve and from that he let the delicate paper flutter down onto the bed. Lit only by the glow from the street light outside their window, Enjolras stared down at the paper and negative space that made up the image of snakes and wild hair and a face twisted with trauma.

The imagine of a cursed woman.

-

( _There was no excusing what happened next though, no misunderstanding, no discrepancy in rules. Knees were never allowed in kickboxing. And it was that, when Grantaire had moved in close to make a jab, which he had felt bite into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him and dropping him to his knees. Guillaume’s gloved fist had connected with his head next and Grantaire was blinking back lights soon after and staring up at the man as he had loomed over him. He had been too confused, too unsettled, to utter the expletives that sat on his tongue._

_“Leave Enjolras the fuck alone,” Guillaume had hissed._

_Grantaire, still trying to catch his breath, had opened his mouth of object._

_“Don’t. I’ve seen the way you look at him, everyone has. It’s disgusting. So I’m warning you now: leave him alone.”_

_Grantaire’s jaw had clenched shut but he was saved from needing to make any sort of response by Bahorel marching over, calling to them cheerfully, laughing at Grantaire for being so thoroughly thrashed. Guillaume had straightened then and strolled over to Bahorel, voice as cheerful and lighthearted as when he’d arrived that morning. Grantaire had stayed down a moment longer, humiliated and ashamed, until he could swallow his internal disgust and plaster a smile over his face, as if nothing had happened._ )

-

“He didn’t!” Enjolras laughed, carefree in a way Grantaire hadn’t seen Enjolras in some time, in a way that was rarely directed at him.

Grantaire grinned back. “It’s true! Those were his exact words! 'A happy ending is an author prostituting himself to society’,” Grantaire quoted, voice low and mocking. “You should hear his views on melancholy and depression, it’d make you want to punch the man. Actually no, you should never hear his views because I’m a little afraid you  _would_  punch him. That’s what you get with Classics profs though: pretentious fucking asshats.”

It was late, later than Enjolras normally chose to stay at the Musain, but lately he had taken to lingering with those of them who liked to stay for drinks. Enjolras wasn’t drinking himself, but he had settled in at Grantaire’s table and seemed happy to listen to his stories of the eccentrics he ran into during the course of his education.

“If you want pretentious you should see some of the people you get in politics classes. Or in the business building,” Enjolras said, chuckling. “Suits, everywhere.  _Everywhere_. I would feel underdressed if another third of the class wasn’t in their pyjamas.”

“Aw man, that is one of the great things about being in Arts: no dress code. If it isn’t stained with oil paint then you’re shunned for being some keen go-getter trying to polish our tarnished reputation.”

Enjolras laughed again and the butterflies in Grantaire’s stomach fluttered again. This would be the death of him but it was one he would face happily.

“Hey, Enjolras, we should go.” 

The butterflies died.

“I’m in the middle of a discussion,” Enjolras said, turning to his soulmate who had broken away from where he had been chatting with Jehan at the bar.

“I’m tired.” He draped himself over Enjolras, who stiffened. “Let’s go home, ange.”

Enjolras’ eyes flickered to Grantaire’s. “You head back, I’ll come soon.”

Then it wasn’t Enjolras’ eyes that Grantaire was meeting, but Guillaume’s, who had looked up from Enjolras’ shoulder and was fixing him with an icy look.  _I’ve seen the way you look at him._

“Ye- _ah_ , I should probably call it a night too,” said Grantaire, standing up though it pained him to do so. He could do the right thing, sometimes. Sometimes he could at least pretend to be selfless. “I still have a portfolio piece I should be working on anyways. You guys have a good night.”

Enjolras frowned at him, but Grantaire waved them off and escaped out the door. It was for the best.

-

“He never seems to be around as much anymore,” Grantaire mourned. “I wouldn’t have thought anything could drag Enjolras away from his beloved club but damn this  _love_  thing doesn’t fuck around.”

“Tell me about,” said Éponine, her eyes fixed on Marius who was blushing at something Courfeyrac was saying.

(He could hear Combeferre talking to Feuilly a little ways off, apparently he and Courfeyrac hadn’t been seeing a lot of Enjolras lately either. Which was weird, because those three were basically in a three-way platonic husbandship. It wasn’t like Enjolras to ignore his friends. Sooner or later he’d have to come around.)

(or maybe he wouldn’t, maybe he’d grow up and move on and forget the youthful idealism and impossible dreams, maybe the ABC Society would disband and they would drift apart and Enjolras would focus on a  _real_  future)

“What’s your problem?” Éponine asked when Grantaire curled in on himself.

“Stomach ache.” It wasn’t exactly a lie.

-

It’s raining, and Enjolras had dragged a chair over to the apartment windows to work. A chill seeped in through the glass, but the rhythmic pattering against the apartment and the soft, muted glow of the city through the rain made it worthwhile. There was something almost suffocating about a good rain, in the way the colours were swallowed and everything was hedged in by the curtains of falling water, but it was a safe sort of suffocating. Everything else was distant. Enjolras sat alone in the apartment by the window with his laptop humming on his lap. Sooner or later Guillaume would be home, but for right now Enjolras was alone.

The cursor on his screen flickered in time with the rain. He had half a paragraph written and had resolved to sit down and get the rest finished now because it was due in less than a week. He wasn’t sure when schoolwork had become so difficult to complete, but it seemed like lately it was harder and harder to sit down and work on it, to make the words come as they were supposed to or even just focus – so it didn’t surprise him when, after pecking out half a sentence, his mind wandered away from his work again. The rain distracted him, because somewhere beyond it was Guillaume. The little internet icon on the corner of his screen distracted him, because somewhere beyond that was the story of woman and Enjolras didn’t know if he was attracted to it or repulsed by it.

With a sigh he set the laptop down and stood up. Maybe he would be able to focus on those pamphlets he’d told Combeferre he’d start drafting; they had been sitting ignored in the bedroom for too long already, even though he and Guillaume had spent an entire evening brainstorming for them. (It had been a good evening. Long. They had fallen asleep immediately, exhausted from the long hours spent discussing and debating and researching.) 

Once he made it to the bedroom though the stack of notes, sketches, and drafts loomed intimidatingly, a mountain insurmountable. Instead of taking them and chipping away at the work like he was want to, Enjolras let the weight of it all push him backwards onto the bed, where he collapsed miserably. When had he become so lazy? This position, curled on the covers, staring vacantly, stupidly outward, shouldn’t feel so familiar. It was familiar though, and the path his hand travelled when it reached for the bedside cabinet and drew out one of the books from within was likewise familiar. He let the cardboard sleeve drop from between the book pages, and then the delicate paper cut drop from there, into his hands.

He let his thumb brush Athena’s out-stretched hands. Raised to smite. Raised to defend. Which story was the true one?

Neither, obviously, because people didn’t actually get a head full of snakes after they were

when they are

after having sex.

Closing his eyes, he rubbed at his face with his free hand. He felt stupid. Heavy and slow as stone. He wished Guillaume would come home.

After being cursed Medusa isolated herself. He had had Grantaire tell him this a couple of weeks ago; they talked more frequently now than they had before – at least, they had more casual, pleasant conversations – and Enjolras enjoyed the way Grantaire lit up when talking about his major. He could spin these long dead stories in a way that made you feel like the characters should be real, that Zeus was truly there judging your actions or that Icarus’ silhouette should suddenly blot out the sun. Medusa had gone to live in a cave, away from humanity after she had been… punished by Athena, now pregnant from Poseidon. But she still hadn’t been left alone, because eventually the hero Perseus, laden with gifts from the gods, sought Medusa out and beheaded her. She hadn’t even been _doing_  anything, he had just singled her out and hunted her down and  _slaughtered_  her because some king had told him to.

Grantaire had told him the story gleeful when Enjolras had – very casually – asked. Grantaire had told him about Perseus’ quest to earn the right to wed his soulmate, and listed each god and the gift they gave him to help defeat the monster, and with a wild tone and dramatic hand gestures he had described the way Perseus had used the mirrored shield to outwit his prey. He had described him finally cutting off Medusa’s head and how Pegasus, the child Poseidon had impregnated her with, had then leapt free of her body. He had told the story like he told all his mythological stories but Enjolras hadn’t been able to enjoy this one because it was like Grantaire had forgotten all about the version of the story he’d told Enjolras earlier. The whole time Enjolras had just wanted to leap across the table and shake Grantaire, demand how he could sound so enthusiastic, how he could act like Perseus was anything but a disgusting murderer, how he could be okay with Medusa’s death after everything  _everything_  she had gone through,  _how_? He wanted to demand _but what about the rape? What about the rape?_

what about the rape

“Enjolras? What are you doing on the bed, ange?”

Enjolras’ heart leapt into his throat and he jerked upright. Guillaume was leaning in the doorway, but his posture was easy and he was smiling fondly. Enjolras tried to relax.

“What were you thinking about? Those pamphlets? Because I had a thought…” said Guillaume, crossing the room to come sit next to Enjolras who forced himself not to recoil. “…What’s that?”

Enjolras didn’t shove the paper cut behind his back like a child but it was a near thing.

“An art thing,” he muttered.

“What? Let me see,” said Guillaume; Enjolras held it up but didn’t offer to hand it over. “Wow, that’s weird, what even is it?” asked Guillaume, squinting his eyes and leaning in close. “That’s some crazy shit. Where’d you even get it? I hope you didn’t pay money for that,” he laughed.

Struck with indignation, Enjolras retorted, “It was one of Grantaire’s class projects. He let me have it.”

That was the wrong thing to say though, because Guillaume’s face immediately darkened.

“Well I think it’s ugly as fuck,” he snapped. “Give it to me.” 

For a moment, Enjolras almost did. His stomach twisted with a sort of guilt he couldn’t name – why should he feel guilty about having a piece of art a friend had made? – and the need to soothe the situation prickled through his body. But his hand shook and the paper in it trembled and the little cut-out Medusa shivered. 

“No.” Not this. 


	22. Chapter 22

Enjolras brought the paper cut to his chest, away from the outstretched hand.

“It was a gift, it's mine.” A lie, Grantaire didn't even know he had it.

“What makes you think you can just accept gifts from any person that slavers at your feet?” Guillaume snarled, standing up.

“Grantaire doesn't _slaver_ ,” Enjolras snapped back, jumping to his feet as well.

Guillaume gave a bark of laughter. “Please, everyone knows that he'd lick your boots if you asked him to, pervert that he is, chasing another man's soulmate because he's too disgusting to get his own.”

“Don't–” Enjolras started to warn but was cut off when Guillaume's fist caught his ribs and sent him stumbling against the wall.

“You probably like it, you fucking whore,” Guillaume snarled, grabbing Enjolras and throwing him back towards the bed so that his hip smashed against the frame. “I bet you roll over for him and take his cock like a fucking slut, since mine doesn't seem to be good enough for you.”

“I do not,” Enjolras screamed, though it was more out of desperation than fury now. The thought of doing _that_ with Grantaire was a thought that didn't bear entertaining. It was disgusting.

“Then give me that piece of fucking shit!” roared Guillaume. He didn't wait for Enjolras to comply though – his hand struck out and fist curling around the paper.

For a moment Enjolras was trapped like a fish by this thin, paper snare between them, one that neither would let go of. That moment ended though when, with a violent yank, the paper tore and Enjolras fell backwards, what was left curled in his fist. Guillaume tripped backwards too and Enjolras embraced the moment.

He ran.

He skidded out of the bedroom and ran out of the apartment, not even pausing to slam the door behind him. Breathlessly he sprinted down the stairs and he could hear Guillaume, who had taken a moment to recover, a moment to realize what had happened, shouting after him like distant thunder. Enjolras didn't know where to go or what to do but terror made his heart and feet race and soon he was out in the rain, gasping at the cold, at the freedom.

Down the street, he could see a bus pull up to let someone out. But it was too far away, it would start up again before Enjolras could get there. It was better than what was behind him though so he ran, he shouted and gasped and he wasn't sure who he was shouting for, the bus driver or something else entirely, but he called all the same.

And the man getting off the bus looked up and met his eye. The person then stuck his head back in the bus and said something to the bus driver, gesturing towards him, before leaving.  _And the bus waited._  With a burst of speed Enjolras fell inside, the doors swishing shut as soon as he had cleared them and, with a hum, the bus pulled away from the curb. Laughter bubbled in Enjolras throat. He didn't even know where this bus was going but  _he had made it_.

“You got lucky,” the driver said cheerfully. “Fare?”

And then Enjolras' heart sank as the reality of the situation returning to him. He had nothing. He hadn't taken his coat, hadn't even put on his shoes before leaving, and he certainly hadn't grabbed his wallet. He didn't have his phone, didn't even have any change, never mind his bus pass.

“I... I don't have any money,” he admitted, voice small. For a crazy moment he expected to the driver to reach out and hit him, scream at him, because he would deserve it, he was an idiot, how could he not have taken five seconds to think that this might be important, that just maybe he'd need something more than the  _clothes on his back_.

But she didn't yell and truly Enjolras knew it was stupid to assume she would; when he looked up she was just giving him a sympathetic look.

“Sorry,” she said, “I'll have to let you out at the next stop then.”

Enjolras nodded wordlessly and, when the next stop came, he stepped out into the rain. At least he was gone though, a few stops between him and the apartment, well away from Guillaume.

Unless he was chasing him, hunting him down, following the bus.

Quickly, Enjolras scurried away from the bus route, up and drown streets as he tried to  _think_. Where could he go? Where  _was_  he?

Slowly through the rain the world began to resolve itself. A café, an apartment complex, a small, local cinema began to appear familiar and Enjolras realized he was about a twenty minute walk from his and Courfeyrac's apartment. Hunching in on himself, he hurried down the sidewalk, feet prickling from the cold and the stinging slap of pavement under his socks. Not once in the twenty minute walk did his heart calm down, it stayed high in his throat and kept his body shaking not only from the rain but from the nerves that quivered under his skin. Every second he waited for Guillaume to pull up in his car, or leap out at him from an alleyway; when Courfeyrac's apartment building came into view he sprinted outright, splashing through puddles into the warm, dry lobby. From there it was only a few shaky steps to the elevator, an agonizing wait as it hummed upwards, and then there he was, in his own hall, at his own apartment.

He pounded on the door. And then did so again when it wasn’t immediately opened. For a wild moment he had thought to reach for his key only to remember that he no longer had one – Courfeyrac had been talking about Marius moving in with him after his lease was up now that he had the place to himself so Enjolras had made a point of leaving it. At the time it had felt like a gesture, like a secret gift to Guillaume, and it had made him smile to that he was placing down a piece of the past to make way for a future. Now, he beat again and again against the door, desperation climbing, because he was locked out, this was his home and he had lost it.

He had given it away.

What if Courfeyrac wasn't even there? Or what if he was and just didn't want to see Enjolras?

(“ _I mean, it just seems a little weird that he's been basically ignoring you...”_ )

“Please, please,” Enjolras begged to the door. “Please.” Don't let it be too late. Please don't make him go back, don't take this away from him...

“Jesus fucking _Christ_ , how impatient can you _be_ – Enjolras?”

And all Enjolras wanted to do is stumble inside but the doorway was filled and the light from within was blocked by the body standing before him, leaving only harsh, contrasting shadows to flood the hall. The door was open, he was so close, but this wasn't what he wanted and resentment flourished in his chest as not Courfeyrac but  _Grantaire_  stopped him.

“What are you doing here?” Enjolras snapped, trying to stand straight.

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. The light from the apartment meant his face was cast in shadows and the gesture looked grotesque to Enjolras' eyes, something skeletal, demonic. “Me and Courf are nominally having a study night and actually having a James Bond night. Unfortunately I made the mistake of sending him on a snack run and rather than chips he seems to have run into Pontmercy. So until he can extract himself from his soulmate's face, I'm holding down the fort,” he said, voice lazy and dry, like he'd never known a moment of urgency. “I could ask you the same thing in any case.” 

The resentment seethed. Enjolras opened his mouth point out that  _this is his house, why_ shouldn't  _he be there?_  when realization hit and his mouth snapped shut. This isn't his home. When will he understand that? This isn't his home, and right now Grantaire has more reason to be there than Enjolras – he had been invited, Enjolras was the one who must look half-mad as he dripped rainwater in the hallway. He was the one who didn't belong here.

“...Enjolras?” Grantaire asked uncertainly when Enjolras says nothing in response. “Are you...? Hey, where's your jacket? Or your  _shoes_ , what are you doing out in the rain like this, Apollo?” And Grantaire moved and suddenly the light from the apartment was filling the hall and Enjolras could have cried in relief; he ignored Grantaire entirely and stumbled into the apartment, into his home, and doesn't stop until he was finally able to collapse on the couch.

“Oh... kay...” he heard Grantaire say behind him, followed by the sound of a door closing and locking. And for a moment fear flutters through his chest because he was now locked in. There was only him and Grantaire and he was locked inside, alone, trapped (“ _please, everyone knows that he'd lick your boots if you asked him to”_ )

“Enjolras?”

He pressed his face against the cushions. The apartment was warm but he was still wet and footsteps were approaching him. 

(“ _disgusting pervert that he is”_ )

“Seriously, what the fuck?”

(“ _chasing another man's soulmate”_ )

“Don't touch me!”

Grantaire's hand, which had reached out to brush his shoulder, immediately recoiled. Enjolras curled in on himself. He was shaking, he realized. He wasn't in the rain, he was in a warm apartment, but he was still shaking and he couldn't stop and Grantaire had touched him and Guillaume was coming and suddenly the pounding of the rain on the windows was  _loud_  and this little bubble of warmth seemed very fragile. The resentment morphed but he didn't know what into, just that it filled his stomach, his chest, it filled his body until there wasn't room for anything else and he screamed wordlessly into the pillow, screamed until he was desperate for breath and then he screamed again, until his throat was sore and all he could do was gasp helplessly.

At some point Grantaire's hand had returned but it wasn't heavy, wasn't hard, wasn't hurting or insisting or manipulating, it just travelled up and down his wet back, soothing, grounding. He allowed it.

“Listen, Enjolras,” said Grantaire from somewhere above him, his voice low and scared and it seemed so funny to Enjolras that Grantaire could sound scared of  _him_ , “do you want me to call Courf? 'Cause he would seriously be here in like two minutes if I texted him, he's just down the street. Unless he wandered off after Marius like a puppy or something... But still, he'd come in a second. Or Combeferre, do you want me to call Combeferre?”

“No!” The urgency returned and Enjolras bolted up right, dislodging the hand as he struggled to sit up and face Grantaire, needing to get the importance of this across. “Don't call Combeferre. Don't call  _anyone_!”

“Okay!” Grantaire raised his hands in surrender from where he knelt on the ground by the couch. ( _he'd lick your boots_ ) Enjolras drew his feet up under himself. “Okay, I won't call anyone. But Courf is going to be here sooner or later, you know?”

Isn't that what he wanted? Why else would Enjolras come here if he didn't want Courfeyrac? He had wanted out of the rain. He had just wanted out. This had been a place to come. But what would he say to Courfeyrac that hadn't been said, that could be said after all this time?

“Enjolras? Please say something. What happened? Why in the world aren't you wearing shoes? Were you attacked?”

Yes. No. _Yes._

He didn't know. He couldn't answer. Grantaire was waiting, expectant (expectations, waiting for him to give, give, give all of himself, until there was nothing left, nothing but something small and hollow that screamed at pillows) but he had no answer. 

Instead he sighed and drooped back against the couch. Whatever had carried him out of the apartment and through the rain left him now and he crumpled like a puppet who had lost its puppeteer, body crumbling against the cushions and hands limp over the edge.

“You're really freaking me out, E,” Grantaire said. “What's this?”

Enjolras watched numbly as Grantaire reached for the little piece of soggy paper that had dropped free from Enjolras’ hand when his fist had finally relaxed. Grantaire spread it with careful fingers and Enjolras stared at the scrap.

“What the heck is–? Wait. Fuck. Is this...? This is my fucking Medusa!” he said, annoyance creeping into his voice. Fearful but too tired to do anything about it, Enjolras watched Grantaire's eyes snap up and search his out. “I've been looking all over for this! What did you  _do_  to it?”

“It's ruined,” said Enjolras, eyes focussing on it rather than Grantaire.

“No shit.”

What had once been a network of delicate paper threads, a testament to hours of work, was now just a scrap that showed a couple patches of soggy scales, the curve of a back, the corner of a once-godly robe. It was ruined. It was absolutely beyond repair. It was a shattered cup, a poorly concealed bruise, vomit on the floor, a declaration of love grunted among the smells of sex. It was broken. Enjolras had destroyed it.

With a noise of frustration, Grantaire flung the scrap onto the low coffee table, where it stuck with a wet slap. Hands free, Grantaire was now able to sit back on his heels and tug at his hair and rub at his face, clearly annoyed. “What the  _fuck_  is going on, Enjolras? Just... I don't know what's happening and I don't know how to deal with it just... tell me  _something_ , please.”

Enjolras was saved from answering by a knock on the door. His heart dropped into his stomach and he thought Grantaire might have said something but all he could hear, feel, was the pounding rain behind thin walls and the sound of a fist on the other side of a locked door and screams in a distant apartment he had tried so hard to run away from.

“That must be Courf,” said Grantaire, breathing a sigh of relief. “Maybe he'll know what's–”

“Enjolras?” It was  _his_  voice. Because of course it was his voice. He was on the other side of the door, knocking to come in, he had followed him, he was here. Enjolras couldn't breathe.

Grantaire turned from the door and raised an eyebrow at Enjolras. “Or maybe not. Looks like everyone except the person I want is here. Is that what this is about, are you two having a fight or something– whoa, hey there!”

Enjolras had stumbled from the couch to his wet, cold feet. Fear had reanimated him.  _Get away,_  his body screamed at him,  _run_. But there was nowhere to run so he jerked down the hall, anything to put distance between them, to give himself a few more minutes until Grantaire let him in and he took Enjolras home...

“Enjolras?”

He fell into his room (not his room, not his room anymore, this didn't belong to him, he didn't belong here) and slammed the door shut behind him. He wasn't even sure who had called his name that time, Grantaire or Guillaume. In the end, did it really matter?

-


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go, before Thursday

Grantaire stared down the hall where Enjolras had disappeared, where it felt like all sense and reason had likewise disappeared.  Grantaire was, he was surprised to realize, afraid. He didn't even understand why but Enjolras...

Enjolras didn't act like this. Enjolras was an unstoppable force and an immoveable object all in one and to see him like this was unspeakably  _wrong_. There were too many questions, too many mysteries, and Grantaire was painfully aware just how out of his depth he was here. A part of him wanted to open the door, let Guillaume in, and have him figure out what was wrong with his soulmate and  _fix it_.

It was a  _very_  small part.

Because whatever was wrong Grantaire's gut screamed that somehow it was Guillaume's fault. And okay, maybe they had just had their first real fight as a couple or something, probably over something stupid like – he didn't even know, what did couples fight about? Not taking out the trash? Or knowing Enjolras it was probably something about working more hours than there were hours in the day or some shit – but somehow that didn't matter. Because the  _noise_  Enjolras had made, and the look on his face when he had finally turned to face Grantaire... No one had the right to do that to Enjolras, no one should have that ability.

So when he opened the door he made a point of lounging on the doorframe, blocking the apartment completely unless Guillaume wanted to try to fight him for entrance.

Grantaire was really, really hoping that Guillaume wanted to try to fight him.

“Hey,” he said.

Guillaume stood in the hallway, wearing a heavy coat with an umbrella resting in one hand. His face darkened when he saw Grantaire.

“I need to speak to Enjolras,” he said curtly.

“Fascinating. I'm not sure I see why you needed to come all this way just to tell me but...”

“I know he's in there.”

Grantaire affected a look of shock. “What? Amazing! Considering I've been in there waiting for Courfeyrac for the past, like, half an hour that's a pretty impressive feat. I know he's a skinny fucker but what, did he slide in under the door? Or descend like a god from on high?”

“You're trying to tell me he didn't come here? Where else would he go?”

“What, can't keep a hold on your soulmate? I could have told you not to bother with that, no one can hold Enjolras.”

“Look, just let me in.”

“Hmm,” hummed Grantaire, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “That seems awfully irresponsible of me, seeing how dear Courfeyrac has trusted me to safe-guard his abode in his absence.”

“Let me in,” Guillaume snarled. “Maybe you’ve forgotten but Courfeyrac's my friend too. Probably more so than he is with your drunk, parasitic ass.”

That was all Grantaire needed, he was immediately pushing into Guillaume's space, shoving roughly, inviting a fight. He might not be as tall as Guillaume but he was broad and his body echoed the hours of physical activity he did in any given week.

There were no rules to hide behind here.

“Whoa, calm the fuck down, what's your problem?” Guillaume laughed, taking a step back. “Can't take a joke? Sorry, forgot that you're so over-sensitive.”

Mentally Grantaire stumbled as he tried to re-adjust to the sudden shift in mood. Everything had deflated and he suddenly felt foolish standing there with his chest out and fists balled. He felt like a child under Guillaume scrutiny.

“He's not fucking here,” Grantaire muttered, but Guillaume was breezing past him into the apartment.

Grantaire trailed in after him and watched defensively as Guillaume poked around the living room. Maybe he should just tell him where Enjolras was. What if Enjolras was really upset and wanted to be comforted by his soulmate instead of by some barely tolerated annoyance that hung around at his meetings?

“Where did you get this?” Guillaume demanded, turning on Grantaire and raising the wet scrap of paper up.

-

Enjolras had started off on the bed in his old room but the thought of Guillaume finding him there had left him sweaty and shaky so he was now wedged in the space between the bed and the wall. It was cramped and uncomfortable, but safe. Tucked away from the world. From there he could hear footsteps thundering in the other room, could hear the rumble of indistinct voices, the pounding of the rain outside, and the beat of his own heart that nearly drowned everything else out.

It was clear Grantaire had let him in. Enjolras pressed his hands over his mouth, as if keeping quiet could save him, and prayed wordlessly, meaninglessly to whatever would listen to him.

The sounds continued but nobody came, not even when the voices rose almost loudly enough for him to make out individual words. At one point he heard Guillaume call him out specific, call for his _ange_ , and it was all Enjolras could do to keep himself silent, to remind himself that he didn't want to answer, that he didn't want to be found, that he didn't, couldn't, go home. Finally there was an angry stomping and the slam of a door. There was only one person left in the apartment besides him now and whoever he was he was now walking towards the bedroom. His heart was beating so hard he was afraid he was going to be sick.

A knock on the door. Enjolras breathed in.

“Enjolras?” 

-

_“Where did you get this?” Guillaume had demanded, turning on Grantaire and raising the wet scrap of paper up._

_A thought had been attempting to form in the back of Grantaire's mind. It had felt like a puzzle was slowly taking shape, if only he could work out where the edge pieces went. Because what did Guillaume know about his paper cut? And why was it in pieces anyway, it's not like Enjolras would have done it out of malice, surely...?_

_“Uh, it's mine...? This art thing... I do that sometimes?” Grantaire had said, trying to put as much patronizing incredulity into his voice as possible._

_“This isn't yours,” Guillaume had snapped._

_Grantaire had stared at him like he was an idiot. “Um, I'm pretty sure it is. Here, if you don't believe me–” He'd pushed past Guillaume and dragged out his school bag, for once infinitely grateful that he was too lazy to ever clean up his messes. From the bag he was then able to pull out other paper cuts, a couple finished ones from class work, and a lot of ruined test ones that had been crumpled and tossed into his bag over the semester._

_Guillaume had reached down and plucked up one of the torn scraps. It was a messed up early version of the Medusa paper cut that Enjolras had had; a sliver of scales could be seen. There had been a number of them, from where his razor had slipped or the paper had crumpled, or the design had proved faulty. Such was the life of an art student._

_“Why is this one wet then?”_

_“Spilt shit in my bag.” The look Guillaume had shot the grubby bag had said plainly that he could easily believe it. “I'm sorry, was this going to be a game of Twenty Questions or were you leaving? Look, it's just been me with my ass sat on Courf's couch messing around on my phone for the past half an hour. Wherever Enjolras is, it's not here, okay? Look, call for him if you like, what do you think he is, a lost cat?”_

_Something in this seemed to still Guillaume. The challenge was clear._ Why are you hunting for Enjolras, why should you have to? You’re his soulmate, give him a call, unless you want to explain why you’re ransacking Courfeyrac and Marius’ apartment. _Actually, Grantaire would really like an explanation for that too._

_But Guillaume didn't offer an explanation, just stood still and glared at Grantaire and called out, as nonchalant as you like, “Hey, ange, you here, love?”_

_“Well...” drawled Grantaire when there had been no answer. But why had there been no answer? Why in the world was Enjolras so determined to hide from Guillaume; Enjolras didn't seem like the sort to avoid an argument when he could be sorting it out._

_This time it had been Guillaume who was invading his space, looming over him and pressing right up against him; Grantaire had stood his ground and glared right back._

_“If I find out you were lying to me...”_

_“You'll what? Kick my ass? Kinky, man.”_

_Guillaume had spat at his feet. Grantaire hadn't even blinked. “You're fucking disgusting,” Guillaume had hissed. “Everyone knows it. You repulse Enjolras, and you repulse me.”_

_“Good,” Grantaire had responded evenly, “my plot is succeeding. Now, did you need me to show you the door?”_

_With a final, threatening look, Guillaume had then turned on his heel and slammed the door behind him._

-

“Enjolras?”

And Enjolras breathed out. It was Grantaire.

There was another knock and when Enjolras didn't answer (why wasn't he answering, he needed to answer, it was just Grantaire) he heard it open.

“Enjolras?” Grantaire called again, softly. Enjolras closed his eyes and while his body relaxed somewhat he still didn't move, didn't speak. 

There was a shuffling as Grantaire entered the room, and then more when he shifted the heap of blankets on the bed. In any other circumstance, Enjolras would have had to smile at the mental image of Grantaire's confused face when he couldn't find Enjolras under the sheets; he could almost image he had been roped into some ridiculous game of drunk hide-and-go-seek after a night out with Les Amis. Except that he was still trembling and Guillaume was still out there and his socks were still soaked through.

There was a creaking, presumably of Grantaire getting on the bed and then: “...Uh, I'm not going to ask why you're down there. Do you, um, maybe want to come out...? I could... make tea?” When Enjolras still didn't answer he pressed on with, “So, I kind of lied through my teeth to your soulmate and kicked him out of Courfeyrac's apartment. Please tell me that that was the right thing to do and you're not going to scream at me or anything?”

It was like he had been waiting for that admission because finally the last of the tension drained from his body and Enjolras was able to slowly extract himself from the crevice in which he was wedged. As he came to sit on the edge of the bed Grantaire moved so that he was perched on the exact opposite corner. Grantaire wrung his hands, and for all the staunch opposition that Grantaire usually posed he seemed very uncertain now.

“Thank you,” Enjolras finally forced from his mouth.

“Uh, so are you guys... having a fight then?” asked Grantaire awkwardly.

“...Something like that.”

The awkwardness of the entire awful situation only seemed to thicken.

“Hey, well,” said Grantaire eventually, aiming for levity, “don't worry about it. This shit happens, right? I mean you two are, and I quote, ‘ _perfect for each other_ ’, and all the cutesy fate bullshit you spout, right? You'll sort it out, so don't be so... upset. It'll be okay. And then, hey, make-up sex, amiright? Like, basically the only point in getting into a fight with your soulmate, yeah? Oh my god Enjolras, I'm sorry, what–?”

Enjolras, who had doubled over on himself, shook his head mutely but a sob slipped from his tight throat. Because this was never going to end, was it?  _Make-up sex?_  What could that possible be like? And that was undoubtedly how this would end, wasn't it? All Enjolras was doing was meaninglessly prolonging the moment and making it worse while he did so because he would eventually have to go back to Guillaume and then he would have to make up for this temper tantrum–

“Hey, hey, it's going to be okay, Enjolras, I promise. Just tell me what to do, Enjolras, please, I'll do it. What's happened?”

Enjolras wanted to tell Grantaire that he had done enough, that he had done so much (but how do you express that? How do you convey how important a little piece of paper that you destroyed was? Or how he would slip into your thoughts unbidden during the worst moments of your life because at least he was something unbending and safe and so unabashedly crude that he wouldn't be soiled by every other awful thing happening. It was impossible) but the tears were overpowering so all Enjolras did was cry. He was _so fucking sick of crying._  When hands touched him he flinched back at first, but then Grantaire pulled him into a hug and he found himself crawling into the other man's lap. Grantaire sounded surprised but he didn't push him off or even comment, just wrapped his arms around him and held him. For the first time in months Enjolras felt  _safe_. Grantaire had gotten rid of Guillaume once. Grantaire scorned soulmates. Grantaire knew stories of monsters who had been raped, of gods who had done the deed, and goddesses who had placed sympathetic curses. Grantaire boxed and fought and danced and argued with Enjolras but was always, always gentle, with all of their friends.

Enjolras sobbed, in fear, in exhaustion, in relief.

-


	24. Chapter 24

Grantaire didn't know what was happening and he was more than a little freaked out but he held Enjolras and made meaningless soothing noises while praying that Courfeyrac came home soon. (In the back of his mind a voice, that sounded disconcertingly like Guillaume, was sneering at him, reprimanding him for the way his chest seemed to ache just from being so close, from getting to do this one thing for Enjolras. He shouldn't be the one doing this, he shouldn't feel so... good about getting to. Enjolras had a soulmate.)

(And, deeper than Guillaume's accusing voice was another, a feminine one. Not even a voice, not anymore, but more of a sigh, a memory. He thought he had finally shed her but she always, always lingers.)

He held Enjolras tighter.

Honestly though he had no idea what could possibly have triggered this sort of reaction in Enjolras. Sure, Enjolras had always been passionate, took everything to heart, but he was fire and ice, he was extremes that could kill, he didn't... didn't break down crying just because of some fight.

(Another puzzle piece had slotted into place, but he still couldn't make out the big picture.)

When he had slung an arm around Enjolras in an awkward, one arm hung he had expected to be pushed off impatiently. He hadn't expected Enjolras to crumple even more under it and ultimately climb right into his lap and cling to him like a heartbroken child. But that didn't even slightly compare to the shock that came when Enjolras, whose sobs were easing somewhat, scrubbed at his tear-streaked face with his palms.

Grantaire squinted down at Enjolras' face because it suddenly seemed like there was a smear of dirt on his cheek that hadn't been there a moment ago. (It wasn't dirt. Grantaire knew it wasn't. His mind baulked at the thought though.)

(Another piece. And suddenly the picture was becoming clearer.)

With a trembling hand, Grantaire reached down and ran his fingers along Enjolras' cheek and the mark. They came back smudged not with dirt but a fleshy colour that contrasted with Grantaire's own. Enjolras stared down at the colour on Grantaire's fingers wordlessly before looking up, wide-eyed, to meet Grantaire's horrified gaze. The mark on his cheek had grown.

Using one hand to cup Enjolras' face, Grantaire pulled his sleeve down over his other hand and scrubbed it against Enjolras' cheek. Enjolras made weak protest, but ultimately made no real effort to stop it. (Enjolras could see his world, precariously balanced as it was, beginning to break into pieces around him. He didn't have the energy to fight it.)

When Grantaire pulled his hand back his sleeve had a large, flesh-coloured stain on it and the bruise – because that's what it was, a  _bruise_  – over Enjolras' cheek stood out in vivid relief. And suddenly Grantaire's eyes were roaming over Enjolras, trying to divine if any other patches of skin hid a horrifying secret under them.

Raising his fingers Grantaire placed them lightly over the bruised skin and watched as tears started falling harder again.

“What happened?”

-

Enjolras' first thought was to lie. It seemed like that was all he had been doing lately, it was almost automatic at this point. But his mind was feeling thick and his tongue heavy and stupid; nothing came. All that was real right now was the old ache of the bruise and the warmth of Grantaire's fingers against it.

“Someone hurt you.”

It wasn't a question but Enjolras still whispered, “yes,” in response. Yes, yes,  _yes_ , please let someone else understand how much it had all hurt.

“Who?”

Enjolras couldn't bring himself to answer that though. That was too much of a betrayal. He didn't know what he was more afraid of: Guillaume finding out he had told someone, or Grantaire's sympathy disappearing once he realized it was a “ _soulmate thing_ ”. 

(Inspector Javert's voice was still a stark memory in his mind.  _“_ _So this is not only an internal matter involving your soulmate, but one that you entered knowingly and consensually? Mr Enjolras, I believe we are finished here. The police aren’t for making slanderous claims to simply because you had a night of bad sex.”_  He didn't want that to happen again. He couldn't stand it. He couldn't, couldn't, _couldn't_ do it again.)

“W-was it... It wasn't... Oh my god, Enjolras, not... Guillaume?”

“I-it was an- an accident.”

“Oh my god. Oh my god.” And instead of the sympathy disappearing Grantaire's arms only pulled him closer him, one of his hands raising to press against his hair, running through it in a way that was surely meant to be soothing but, but...

But all of a sudden it was too much. Enjolras couldn't explain it, but heat shot through his body and it was suddenly  _all too much_  – saying it out loud, having someone else know, and  _it was still happening, his hair was still being tugged at and he was still being held down and yes it had been wonderful a minute ago, it had been safety and acceptance but now it was a cage and it was Guillaume and why couldn't people just STOP–!_  He struck out blindly, felt his hand connect and heard the loud “Ouch!” but the arms jerked back and Enjolras fell away.

“Enjolras, what–?”

“Stop touching me!”

“Okay, I'm sorry, hey...”

And the voice was so gentle now, soothing, but the anger only rose because how dare he, how dare he try to calm him down, how dare he touch him and then try to act like Enjolras was the one who needed to stop, how dare he? Fury moved him without a conscious thought and Enjolras, darting away, grabbed the nearest object at hand and turned and threw it as hard as he could. “Why won't you just  _stop already!_ ”

Not waiting to see what happened, not caring, he turned and let his adrenaline-choked limbs free, let them carry him away – he was running away again.

No, why should he run? It was  _his fucking apartment_. Why was he always running? He stumbled to a stop in the kitchen and the fury spiked; he kicked out at the nearest object with a scream, sending the poor chair clattering across the floor before he let out an anguished moan and sank to his knees, gripping his head almost painfully. What was he doing? Where had this rage come from? He had never been like this before. He might get passionate but Courfeyrac was the one how had snapped and lit an entire stack of school newspapers on fire because he had been so angry at them. Enjolras, for all Combeferre accusations of not thinking things through, didn't act out like that. He had never tried to hurt one of his friends before and, oh god, that was coming back, he had just tried to hurt one of his friends. Maybe he  _had_  hurt him.

If he had just stayed in the apartment with Guillaume then none of this would have happened. It would have stayed the same and he wouldn't be crying in Courfeyrac's kitchen after having attacked Grantaire. He was horrible. It would make sense if his friends  _had_  been trying to avoid him like Guillaume had said, because Guillaume was right, wasn't he? He was terrible.

“Enjolras? Hey, I'm right here, okay? I won't touch you again, Enjolras, but can you try to calm down?”

Enjolras first instinct was to immediately apologize, atone (he had tried to  _hurt one of his friends_ ) but what came out instead was the fury that was still curdling in his guts. “Why are you still here, Grantaire. Go away.  _Go away._  Why are you  _here?_ ” Enjolras had tried to hurt him – maybe had hurt him – why was he still here?

“Hey, I'm not just gonna... leave you like this, or whatever. Look, if you don't want to talk to me, tell me who you want to talk to, Enjolras, please. Just... let me do something for you.”

“I don't want anything, I don't want to talk to anyone,” Enjolras tried to scream but it was coming out all choked up again. “I already have.”

“You  _what_?”

But Enjolras never got to find out what exactly was getting Grantaire so worked up because that was the moment that the apartment door swung open with a holler of, “Honey, I'm home!”

“Did you miss me?” crowed Courfeyrac as he strutted into the apartment.

Enjolras, who still had his head pressed against his knees, could hear the sound of his shoes being kicked off and sent flying against some solid surface, followed by rustling bags.

“Sorry I'm late!” he called. “But I come bearing promised study snacks and, if you like, a blow-by-blow account of mine and Marius' impromptu rendez-vous!”

“Thank fuck you're here,” Grantaire said in way of greeting. “Get your ass in here, Courf.”

“ _Oh_ -kay, why are you hanging out in the kitch– Enj? Oh, sorry,  _Enjolras_ – What the heck is going on in here?”

“Nothing,” Enjolras tried to grit out, but was immediately interrupted by Grantaire.

“Guillaume decided Enjolras’ face would look prettier black and fucking blue.”

“He  _what_?”

“ _Punched him_ ,” Grantaire snarled.

“No, it wasn't like that... That one wasn't a punch...” Enjolras tried to defend weakly. It hadn't been, that one had come when Guillaume had been trying to convince him to make out with him on the couch and pushed him a little too hard. Enjolras had fallen and smacked the side of his face against a textbook that had been left on the floor. It had almost been an accident, really...

“I'm sorry–  _that one?_  There's been others? That have been punches?” He could hear Grantaire's voice climbing in octaves.

“What the hell is going on?” was all Courfeyrac said. “Enjolras? What's going on. Did Guillaume really...? No, he couldn't have, not... It's Guillaume!” He said it so plaintively that Enjolras wanted to cry. Because it was Guillaume, how could he be saying these things about Guillaume?

“It was an accident,” Enjolras told his knees.

“That gave you multiple bruises?” demanded Grantaire.

“Dude you need to stop, I think you're freaking him out,” said Courfeyrac uncertainly, finally dropping his bags and kneeling down, shuffling towards where Enjolras and Grantaire were.

That seemed to shut Grantaire up because after that there was a lull. Enjolras kept his eyes shut but listened to Courfeyrac shift until he was sitting next to him. He didn't touch Enjolras but he radiated warmth.

“Enjolras. What's up? Talk to me, man.”

“I don't know what to do,” Enjolras confessed, his voice breaking. “I just... I want it to stop, Courf, and I don't, don't... I don't know what to  _do_.”

Courfeyrac and Grantaire exchanged a look.

“Hey, Enj...olras. Enjolras. My man. We'll figure it out, okay? Whatever's going on, I promise we'll help you figure this out. And... and whatever happened, we aren't going to let you get hurt anymore.”

“Damn straight,” growled Grantaire.

Somehow Enjolras had always imagined that telling people would feel better than this. Instead he still hurt, was still scared, only now he felt lost and stranded and so, so guilty on top of it all. But, he reflected, pressing back against the kitchen cabinets, at least he was feeling all that in his own apartment with his friends. That at least was a slight improvement. And he would take it, whatever came next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we go, Part One written, edited, and uploaded, finally. I have officially been working on this story for over a year!
> 
> To the people who have been following this fic so far: thank you so much for your patience and support, even though I'm a certifiably unreliable writer; I hope you've enjoyed the ride so far. Also, to the people who've left comments, you guys are actually the best, you fuel me. And to anyone that's been following this since I started posting it on LJ: you must have incalculable amounts of patience because holy shit how have none of you tried to kill me yet?? Short hiatus my ass.
> 
> I'll hopefully be starting Part Two shortly, where things will (hopefully) start to get a little better for Enjolras & co.


End file.
